THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LAND   OF   THE    LINGERING 
SNOW 


CHRONICLES  OF  A  STROLLER 

NEW  ENGLAND 
FROM  JANUARY  TO  JUNE 


BY 

FRANK   BOLLES 

THIRD    EDITION 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

}3n:ss,  Cam  Image 
1893 


Copyright,  1891, 
BY  FRANK  BOLLES. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mats.,  V.  S.  A, 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Uougbton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SNOW 

NATURE  IN  ARMOR  .        .       •    • 

12 
A  TEMPEST 


THE  SEA  IN  A  SNOWSTORM 


18 


TWO  VIEWS  THROUGH  WlNTER  SUNSHINE      ...     25 

WAVERLEY  OAKS  AND  BUSSEY  HEMLOCKS  . 

THE  FIRST  BLUEBIRDS       .......      38 

THE  MINUTE-MAN  IN  A  SNOWDRIFT     .... 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  BIRDS      ...... 

THE  EQUINOCTIAL  ON  THE  DUNES        ....         59 

70 
THE  RENAISSANCE       ....... 

THE  VESPER  SONG  OF  THE  WOODCOCK 

A  TRIP  TO  HIGHLAND  LIGHT    ......      83 

THE  CURRENT  OF  MUSKETAQUID  ..... 

A  BIT  OF  COLOR  .........    ] 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  PEGAN  HILL    ..... 

WOOD  DUCKS  AND  BLOODROOT  ......    122 

A  VOYAGE  TO  HEARD'S  ISLAND    .....       13° 

A  FOREST  ANTHEM     .....       •       •       •    ] 

THE  BITTERN'S  LOVE  SONG   ......       159 

WARBLER  SUNDAY       ........    ] 

ROCK  MEADOW  AT  NIGHT       ...... 

THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  MEADOW         .....    181 


WACHUSETT 


190 


IN  THE  WREN  ORCHARD .198 


CHOCORUA  . 


208 


535001 

UBRARl 


LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 


FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE   SNOW. 

SUNDAY,  the  eleventh  day  of  the  new  year, 
was  what  most  people  would  call  a  good  day  to 
stay  in  the  house.  The  face  of  New  England 
winter  was  set.  No  smiling  sky  relieved  its 
grimness,  no  soft  breeze  promised  a  season  of 
relenting.  The  notes  of  the  college  bell  were 
muffled  and  the  great  quadrangle  was  deep  with 
snow,  as  I  left  Old  Cambridge  behind  me  and 
sought  the  hills  of  Arlington  three  miles  or 
more  to  the  north.  Slowly  climbing  the 
heights,  after  my  car  ride,  I  looked  back  at  the., 
world  I  had  left.  The  sky  was  a  mass  of  dull 
gray  clouds,  with  a  copper -colored  spot  where 
the  sun  was  hiding.  Boston  and  Cambridge  lay 
under  a  pall  of  smoke  and  dun-colored  vapor. 
The  broken  ridges  from  Belmont  to  the  Middle- 
sex Fells  were  buried  deep  in  snow,  the  soft 
whiteness  of  which  was  interrupted  by  patches 
of  dark  pines,  dotted  with  stiff  cedars,  or  shaded 


2  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

by  the  delicate  etching  of  birches  and  elms. 
The  air  was  in  that  condition  which  favors  the 
carriage  of  distant  sounds.  I  heard  the  rumble 
of  trains  on  the  Fitchburg,  Massachusetts  Cen- 
tral and  Albany  railways  on  the  one  hand  and 
of  those  on  the  Northern  roads  on  the  other. 
Now  and  then  the  tooting  whistle  of  a  train 
sounded  like  the  hooting  of  a  mammoth  owl. 

Entering  the  woods,  I  found  written  upon  the 
snow  the  records  of  those  who  had  travelled 
there  before  me.  A  boy  with  his  sled  had  been 
across  to  a  pond  in  the  hollow.  A  dog  had  fol- 
lowed him,  running  first  to  one  side,  then  to  the 
other.  Further  on  I  struck  another  track.  The 
prints  were  smaller  than  the  dog's,  round,  and 
in  a  single  line,  spaced  quite  evenly,  like  those 
of  a  fox.  Somebody's  cat  had  been  hunting  on 
her  own  account.  In  an  open  space,  bunches 
of  golden  rod  and  asters  had  been  pulled  to 
pieces,  and  all  around  their  stalks  the  footprints 
of  small  birds,  perhaps  goldfinches  or  redpolls, 
were  thick.  Not  far  away  the  snow  on  an  open 
hillside  was  pencilled  by  the  rising  stems  of 
barberry  bushes.  From  the  pine  woods  to  these 
bushes  numerous  tiny  paths  led.  The  most 
dainty  feet  had  printed  their  story  there.  The 
journeys  seemed  to  have  been  made  in  dark- 
ness, for  the  paths  made  queer  curves,  loops, 
false  starts  into  the  open  pasture  and  quick  re- 


FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE   SNOW.  3 

turns  to  the  woods.  The  barberry  bushes  had 
been  found,  however,  and  were  thoroughly  en- 
snared in  the  tracks.  The  mice  which  formed 
them  had  made  holes  in  the  snow  near  the  stems 
of  the  bushes,  and  these  holes  led  through  long 
tunnels  down  to  the  ground  and  possibly  into  it. 
Among  the  pitch  pines,  old  orchards,  and  chest- 
nut trees  squirrel  tracks  were  countless.  Most 
of  them  were  those  of  the  red  squirrel,  but  in 
deeper  woods  I  found  records  of  gray  squirrels 
as  well.  Along  frozen  brooks,  where  alders, 
willows,  privet,  and  rosebushes  were  thick,  the 
small  brown  rabbits  had  been  feeding  and  pay- 
ing moonlight  visits  to  each  other.  In  an  or- 
chard I  found  a  place  where  a  crow  had  alighted 
and  marched  about  with  long  strides.  Most  in- 
teresting of  all  were  the  hurried  tracks  of  a 
flock  of  birds  which  had  been  feeding  on  bar- 
berries, juniper  and  privet  berries.  They  had 
been  disturbed  by  a  dog  and  had  skurried 
through  the  thicket,  their  sharp  toes  printing 
innumerable  "  crow's  feet  "  in  the  snow.  What 
were  they  ?  I  pushed  on  to  see,  and  soon  started 
a  flock  of  fifteen  quail  from  a  dark  grove  of 
pines.  Later  I  found  one  cuddled  up  in  a  hol- 
low in  the  snow  under  a  juniper,  eating  the  ber- 
ries over  her  head.  I  nearly  stepped  upon  the 
bush  before  she  flew. 

Descending  into  a  ravine  filled  with  ruddy 


4  LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

willows,  privet,  and  rose  bushes  gay  with  their 
red  hips,  I  heard  a  note  which  made  me  halt 
and  listen.  Yes,  a  robin.  The  sides  of  the 
ravine  were  clothed  with  savins,  the  ridges  were 
crowned  by  tall  pines.  Rose  hips  and  sumac 
seeds,  barberries,  privet  and  juniper  berries 
furnished  food,  and  the  sun  is  always  warm  — 
when  it  shines.  A  soft  rain  began  to  fall,  and 
it  loosed  the  tongues  of  the  birds.  Chickadees 
called  from  tree  to  hedge.  Golden-crested  king- 
lets lisped  to  each  other  in  the  cedars.  A  dozen 
crows  circled  over  the  high  pines,  cawing  discon- 
tentedly, and  the  robin's  note  sounded  from 
three  or  four  quarters  at  once.  I  gained  the  top 
of  the  ridge  and  looked  across  a  pasture.  In  a 
branching  oak  were  several  birds.  As  I  drew 
near,  others  flew  in  from  neighboring  savins  and 
bunches  of  barberry  bushes.  They  were  robins. 
In  all,  thirty-six  flew  into  the  oak  and  then  went 
off  in  a  noisy  flock  as  I  reached  the  tree.  Their 
plumage  was  much  lighter  than  in  summer.  The 
rain  fell  faster  and  I  left  the  pasture,  homeward 
bound.  The  last  I  saw  of  the  pasture  hillside  it 
was  sprinkled  with  robins  running  back  and 
forth  on  the  snow,  picking  up  privet  berries. 
They  were  as  jolly  as  in  cherry  time. 

While  recrossing  pasture  and  field,  swamp 
and  thicket,  I  noticed  countless  black  specks 
upon  the  snow.  They  moved.  They  were 


FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SNOW.  5 

alive.  Wherever  a  footprint,  a  sharp  edge  of 
drift,  or  a  stone  wall  broke  the  monotony  of  the 
snow  surface,  these  black  specks  accumulated, 
and  heaped  themselves  against  the  barrier.  For 
miles  every  inch  of  snow  had  from  one  to  a 
dozen  of  these  specks  upon  it.  What  were 
they?  Snowfleas  or  springtails  (achoreutes  nim- 
co/a),  one  of  the  mysteries  of  winter,  one  of  the 
extravagances  of  animal  life.  Fortunately  they 
prefer  the  cold  face  of  the  snow  to  a  life  of  para- 
sitic persecution. 

As  I  caught  a  homeward-bound  electric  car, 
I  looked  back  at  the  ridges  of  Arlington  with 
gratitude  and  admiration.  They  made  a  land- 
scape of  ermine,  a  soft  blending  of  light  and 
dark.  The  falling  rain,  snowbound  farms,  savin- 
dotted  hillsides,  bluish  belts  of  woodland,  deli- 
cate tracery  of  elm  branches  ;  all  mingled  to 
form  a  background  for  reverie,  a  gentle  good-by 
to  a  day  of  rest. 


NATURE  IN  ARMOR. 

NATURE  does  not  always  drop  her  cloak  of 
ermine  when  she  buckles  on  her  armor.  She 
often  covers  her  soft  snow  garments  with  icy  mail 
and  meets  the  dawn  with  every  hillside  a  shield 
and  every  branch  of  oak  a  sword.  She  was  thus 
girded  and  armed  on  Sunday,  January  18, 1891, 
as  I  sought  the  Arlington  hills  at  the  hour  when 
the  air  of  Suffolk  and  Middlesex  was  throbbing 
with  the  music  of  church  bells.  A  gentle  east 
wind  —  for  even  Massachusetts  east  winds  can 
be  gentle  when  they  try  —  carried  in  slanting 
lines  against  the  hills  and  trees  a  steady  fall  of 
cold  rain.  It  had  been  falling  so  for  over  twelve 
hours,  till  level  snow,  fences,  walls,  weeds  by  the 
wayside,  shrubs,  orchards,  elms  in  the  meadows, 
savins  on  the  hillsides,  and  belts  of  woods  on  the 
ridge-crests  were  all  sheathed  in  clear  ice,  which 
measured,  on  an  average,  a  quarter  of  an  inch 
in  thickness. 

As  I  mounted  through  the  open  fields  toward 
the  heights,  I  wondered  what  the  birds  were  do- 
ing in  the  cold  rain,  with  every  twig  ice-coated, 
and  every  berry  shut  up  in  thick  crystal.  Where 


NATURE  IN  ARMOR.  1 

were  the  crows,  the  chickadees,  and  above  all, 
the  adventurous  robins  ?  "  Here  I  am,"  a  robin 
seemed  to  say  from  the  roadside,  and  at  the 
same  instant  I  saw  a  bird  fly  from  a  dense  tangle 
of  briers,  bushes,  cedars  and  tall  maples,  to  the 
highest  branch  of  a  tree,  shake  himself  thor- 
oughly, and  then  give  the  familiar  robin  signal  of 
alarm  and  inquiry.  He  was  answered  by  a  sec- 
ond bird,  and  presently  three  of  them  flew  over 
my  head  and  down  the  hill  towards  a  grove  of 
pines.  I  had  a  clear  view  of  them  through  my 
opera-glass. 

A  few  steps  further  on  I  came  to  a  white  birch- 
tree,  bent  by  the  ice  till  its  head  rested  in  a 
snowbank  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  from 
its  but.  It  formed  an  ice-screen  thirty  feet 
long  and  nine  feet  high,  directly  across  the  road. 
The  tree  measured  nearly  three  feet  in  circum- 
ference at  its  base.  Near  by  a  grove  of  white 
birches  had  become  a  shapeless  tangle  of  ice-wires 
and  cables.  The  eye  could  not  separate  any  one 
tree  from  the  mass,  and  the  tops  of  all  were  rest- 
ing upon  the  snow.  The  road  was  lined  with 
bleached  asters  and  goldenrod.  Not  only  were 
their  stems  ice-hung,  but  their  pale,  flower-like 
involucres  were  embedded  in  nodding  balls  of 
ice,  half  an  inch  in  diameter.  So  delicate  were 
these  mock  flowers  and  so  erect  and  perfect  their 
form  within  the  crystal,  that  it  seemed  certain 


8  LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

they  must  have  been  first  embraced  by  a  freez- 
ing mist  as  gentle  and  caressing  as  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine. The  same  ice-kiss  had  rested  upon  the 
bunches  of  red  barberries,  the  dark  berries  of 
the  privet,  and  the  sticky,  red,  cone-shaped 
masses  of  the  sumac  fruit.  Even  the  dead,  rus- 
set leaves  hanging  from  the  oaks  had  a  sheet  of 
ice  clinging  to  them  which,  when  slipped  off, 
showed  their  form  and  veinings. 

Entering  the  pine  woods  where  I  had  previ- 
ously seen  quail,  I  found  the  trees  in  trouble. 
The  great  pines  were  loaded  down  with  ice,  and 
many  a  branch  had  broken  and  fallen  under  its 
weight.  The  surface  of  the  snow  was  strewn 
with  twigs  and  branches  of  every  size.  A  strange 
roar  of  falling  ice  and  twigs  filled  the  woods, 
now  and  then  emphasized  by  the  crash  of  some 
greater  fall.  I  found  the  tracks  of  one  quail 
and  of  a  rabbit,  made  doubtless  Saturday 
evening  while  the  snow  was  still  soft ;  but  other- 
wise the  face  of  the  snow  told  no  tales.  It  was 
smooth  and  shining,  as  though  no  dainty  feet  of 
mice  and  squirrels  had  ever  pressed  upon  it. 
There  were  squirrels  at  work,  however.  Under 
one  pitch-pine  I  found  a  pint  of  cone  chips 
freshly  strewn.  Half  a  mile  distant  I  surprised 
a  red  squirrel  busy  in  an  old  chestnut-tree  which 
had  succumbed  to  its  awful  burden  of  ice  and 
fallen  mangled  in  the  snow.  He  fled  from  me 


NATURE  IN  ARMOR.  9 

and  bounded  up  the  trunk  of  an  oak,  but  he 
reckoned  without  the  ice,  and  when  part  way  up 
lost  his  grip  and  fell  back  upon  the  crust  below, 
a  very  much  mortified  squirrel. 

In  dense  growths  of  pitch-pines  and  savins  I 
came  across  six  flocks  of  chickadees,  in  all  per- 
haps twenty  of  the  merry  little  birds.  They 
seemed  to  keep  dry,  and  by  working  on  the 
under  and  westerly  sides  of  the  branches  found 
food  not  covered  by  ice.  In  one  of  the  flocks 
were  two  little  brown  creepers  who  were  unable 
to  make  spirals  or  zigzags  round  the  tree-trunks, 
as  is  their  frequent  practice,  but  who  seemed 
happy  in  hitching  straight  up  the  trunks  of  the 
pines  and  the  oaks.  The  chickadees,  creepers 
and  crows,  as  well  as  the  robins,  were  very  talk- 
ative. The  only  other  bird  seen  was  a  small 
hawk,  which  sailed  silently  over  the  snow  in  a 
secluded  pasture. 

About  two  o'clock  I  gained  the  crest  of  a  high 
ridge  from  which  I  could  see  many  miles  of 
snow-covered  country.  The  sky  was  a  cold  gray- 
ish white ;  the  pines  and  cedars  looked  almost 
black.  Against  the  sky  the  ice-covered,  leafless 
trees  were  a  darker  gray  than  the  clouds,  but 
against  the  evergreens  or  in  masses  by  them- 
selves they  were  ashes-of -roses  color  and  wonder- 
fully soft  in  tone.  Looking  across  a  sloping 
pasture  at  a  swamp  filled  with  elms  and  willows, 


10  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

they  seemed  to  be  a  mass  of  dark  stems  with 
their  tops  shrouded  in  pale  smoke  through  which 
the  faintest  possible  fire-glow  permeated.  I 
suppose  the  color  came  from  the  reddish  bark 
of  the  twigs.  Just  then  the  sun  found  a  rift 
in  the  rushing  clouds,  and  for  a  single  minute 
poured  his  glory  upon  the  crystal  world  below. 
Every  tint  changed.  Every  atom  of  ice  re- 
sponded, flashing  to  the  touch  of  light,  but  the 
east  wind  hurried  forward  fresh  mists  from  the 
ocean  and  the  sunlight  vanished.  Below  me 
hundreds  of  small  trees  ti'ailed  their  tops  upon 
the  snow.  It  seemed  as  though  some  muezzin 
of  the  ice-world  had  called  them  to  their  prayers. 
Farther  away  were  acres  of  scattered  pitch-pines, 
every  bunch  of  whose  needles  was  a  drooping 
pompon  of  heavy  ice.  As  I  looked  at  them 
through  the  thickly  falling  sleet  they  seemed  to 
march  in  ranks  across  the  fields  of  snow,  their 
heads  bent  from  the  wintry  storm,  despair  in 
their  attitude.  "  The  retreat  from  Moscow,"  I 
said,  and  hoped  that  the  day  of  judgment  against 
the  weak  among  the  trees  would  not  be  followed 
by  a  night  of  tempestuous  wrath  against  the 
whole  ice-bound  forest. 

The  wind,  gentle  as  it  seemed,  was  too  strong 
for  some  trees.  Once  I  heard  a  report  like  a 
cannon,  and  turned  to  see  an  old  willow  forty 
feet  high  plunge  into  the  snow.  At  another 


NATURE  IN  ARMOR.  11 

time  a  long  branch  of  an  elm  at  which  I  was 
looking  slowly  bent  lower  and  lower,  and  then 
broke  midway  with  a  crack  and  swung  toward 
the  ground.  I  raised  a  prostrate  cedar  bush, 
whose  height  was  about  seven  feet,  and  found 
that  its  load  of  ice  seemed  to  weigh  thirty  pounds. 
If  this  were  so,  what  must  the  burden  of  the  great 
trees  have  been  ?  Tons,  perhaps.  .Yet  the  oaks 
did  not  seem  to  bend  an  inch.  Their  stiff  heads 
were  raised  straight  toward  the  sky,  and  their 
immovable  arms  bristled  with  icicles. 

About  an  hour  before  sunset  I  pointed  my 
course  downward,  sighting  for  the  tower  of  Me- 
morial Hall  rising  black  against  the  distant  sky. 
Much  ice  had  fallen  from  the  trees  since  the 
forenoon,  and  there  was  a  ceaseless  roar  of  fall- 
ing fragments  as  I  passed  through  the  strips  of 
woodland.  The  temperature  had  risen  enough 
to  loosen  the  ice  armor,  and  everything  from 
asters  to  elm-tops  was  casting  it  off. 


A  TEMPEST. 

ON  the  afternoon  of  Saturday,  January  24, 
while  roaming  over  the  hills  between  Arlington 
and  Medford,  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  spend 
the  next  day  in  the  woods.  Nature  seemed  to 
have  become  prosaic,  almost  dull.  I  saw  one 
crow,  —  no  other  tenant  of  the  woods.  The  snow 
had  been  washed  away  and  the  ice  which  re- 
mained was  stained.  The  air  was  heavy  with 
the  breath  of  long-forgotten  cabbage-leaves. 
Farmers  were  at  work  in  their  plowed  lands, 
stirring  up  other  odors  equally  obnoxious.  Even 
the  fields  were  unpleasant  to  walk  over  on  ac- 
count of  their  alternate  patches  of  ice  and  pasty 
mud.  But  Sunday  morning  before  sunrise  the 
wind  shifted  to  the  northeast  and  changed  a 
drizzling  rain  into  a  furious  snowstorm,  and  by 
noon,  when  I  reached  the  first  hill -top  above 
Arlington,  the  storm  was  at  its  height.  The  air 
was  in  a  fury.  Laden  with  great  masses  of 
flakes  it  bore  them  in  horizontal  lines  over  fields 
and  pastures,  hurling  them  against  every  obsta- 
cle, and  whitening  even  the  window  panes  of 
houses  facing  eastward.  The  blast  was  as  unin- 


A   TEMPEST.  13 

termittent  in  its  pressure  as  natural  forces  can 
be  ;  yet  it  seemed  to  excite  vibration  and  rhythm 
in  all  it  touched.  The  tops  of  the  pines  fell  and 
rose,  the  branches  moved  forward  and  back,  the 
roar  of  the  wind  pulsated  and  the  soft  surface 
of  the  snow  was  not  even,  but  broken  into  tiny 
waves.  In  the  pine  woods  the  wind  was  less 
violent,  but  the  passing  snow  seemed  like  vibrat- 
ing white  lines  rather  than  flakes.  As  I  stood 
in  the  pines  and  looked  northeast,  every  tree  was 
black  against  a  distance  of  on-coming  white 
rage.  As  I  looked  southwest  every  tree  was 
white,  finely  outlined  in  black,  against  a  retreat- 
ing mass  of  colorless  motion.  If  I  looked  south- 
east the  trees  were  black  and  white,  and  if  north- 
west they  were  white  and  black,  and  whichever 
way  I  looked  the  air  was  surging  on,  laden  with 
the  bewildered  and  bewildering  snow. 

Pushing  on  I  entered  a  deep  and  rocky  gorge. 
Possibly  Verestchagin's  brush  could  indicate  the 
absolute  whiteness  overlaid  upon  the  less  abso- 
lute white  of  that  mysteriously  beautiful  spot. 
Certainly  nothing  else  could.  Every  rock,  bush, 
trunk,  limb,  branchlet,  twig  and  leaf -bud  was 
covered  with  the  clinging  snow.  Beyond  was  an 
oak  wood.  The  inelastic  ice  of  last  Sunday  failed 
to  bend  these  stubborn  trees,  but  the  wet,  sticky 
snow  had  overcome  them.  Dozens  of  slender 
young  oaks,  thirty  feet  in  height,  were  bent  to 


14  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

the  ground.  This  gave  a  hint  of  what  the  con- 
dition of  the  pitch-pines  and  cedars  would  be, 
in  spots  sheltered  from  the  wind,  and  I  hurried 
on  to  see  them.  The  walking  was  heavy.  Early 
in  the  afternoon,  when  the  storm  abated,  just 
nine  inches  of  snow  had  fallen  on  a  level.  Pass- 
ing through  the  woods,  where  I  had  seen  quail 
two  weeks  ago,  but  where  now  no  sign  of  them 
was  to  be  found,  I  came  out  into  the  old  pasture, 
thickly  overgrown  with  savin,  pitch-pine  and 
barberries.  Here  and  there  something  which 
resembled  a  tree  remained,  but  the  greater  part 
of  the  growth  had  been  suppressed.  There  were 
rounded  masses  which  looked  like  sheep  in  the 
snow,  and  there  were  arched  stems  from  which 
depended  balls  and  branches  of  snow  resembling 
boxing-gloves,  cauliflowers,  toy  rabbits  and  lambs 
and  other  unpoetical  objects.  In  most  cases  the 
top  of  the  pine  or  savin  could  not  be  distin- 
guished from  its  base. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  was  a  cedar  swamp. 
Entering,  I  could  readily  imagine  myself  in  the 
Luray  Caverns.  A  floor  of  pure  white  sup- 
ported an  endless  series  of  white  columns,  beyond 
which  were  botryoidal  masses  of  white  rising  to 
i  roof  of  white.  Mingled  with  the  more  regular 
forms  were  snarls  and  tangles  of  snow  serpents, 
and  shafts  and  pinnacles  as  varied  in  form  as  the 
stalagmites  of  the  limestone  caves.  Later  I  was 


A   TEMPEST.  15 

in  one  of  these  enchanting  places  when  the  sun 
came  out  and  the  zenith  was  left  free  from  clouds. 
The  effects  were  so  beautiful  and  striking  that, 
although  words  give  but  a  hint  of  them,  they 
are  ineffaceable  in  memory.  Through  the  swamp 
runs  a  small  stream.  As  the  day  was  compara- 
tively warm  no  ice  encumbered  the  clear  water. 
At  one  point  it  spread  out  over  a  broad  bed  of 
mud,  from  which  rose  a  thick  growth  of  grass, 
watercress  and  ranunculus.  All  three  plants 
were  vivid  green  and  offered  a  strange  contrast 
to  the  arabesque  of  snow  which  framed  the 
brook. 

Wild  as  was  the  storm  and  stimulating  as 
were  its  direct  buffeting  and  indirect  effect  of 
form  and  color,  the  day  was  as  remarkable  on 
another  account  as  it  was  for  the  tempest.  I 
saw  eighty- five  birds,  representing  nine  species. 

Several  times  I  heard  crows,  flying  through 
the  driving  snow,  calling  to  each  other  in  its  con- 
fusion. In  the  pines  at  the  summit  of  the  first 
high  hill  were  two  little  brown  creepers  flying 
from  trunk  to  trunk  and  exploring  busily  the 
bark  on  the  sheltered  side  of  the  trees.  When 
they  left  a  tree  the  storm  whirled  them  away  like 
dry  leaves,  but  they  promptly  headed  toward 
the  wind  and  sped  back  under  the  lee  of  some 
sheltering  tree  to  its  but,  the  point  where  their 
explorations  always  begin.  They  kept  track 


16  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

of  each  other  by  frequent  attenuated  squeaks. 
Chickadees  were  everywhere,  and  very  noisy. 
They  worked  quite  as  much  on  snow-covered 
twigs  as  on  the  sheltered  side  of  branches.  In 
the  cedar  swamp  they  popped  in  and  out  of  snow 
caverns  among  the  branches,  often  tipping  over 
great  piles  of  snow  and  dodging  them  with  a 
jolly  "  chick-a-dee-dee-dee."  In  this  swamp  a 
single  tree-sparrow  appeared  among  the  branches 
of  a  big  cedar  and  looked  with  evident  amaze- 
ment upon  my  snow-covered  form.  Here,  too,  I 
saw  and  heard  the  first  robins  of  the  day  flying 
and  signalling  among  the  tops  of  some  of  the 
larger  cedars,  and  near  by  in  a  bunch  of  pines, 
just  above  the  swamp,  three  golden-crested  king- 
lets made  merry  in  the  sunlight  which  succeeded 
the  storm.  A  solitary  goldfinch  undulated  over 
me  in  an  open  pasture,  singing  the  first  note  or 
two  of  his  summer  song,  and  a  nuthatch  passed 
close  by  me  on  my  homeward  walk. 

But  the  great  display  of  birds  came  in  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon,  at  the  time  that  the 
clouds  were  breaking  and  the  wind  was  working 
out  of  the  east.  I  was  crossing  a  high  sloping 
pasture  with  a  cedar  swamp  at  its  base  and  a 
fringe  of  large  cedars  round  its  edge,  when,  strik- 
ing a  patch  of  concealed  ice,  my  feet  flew  from 
under  me,  and  I  found  myself  on  my  back  in 
the  snow.  Looking  into  the  sky,  I  saw  a  flock 


A    TEMPEST.  17 

of  at  least  twenty  robins  flying  overhead.  They 
came  from  the  swamp  and  stopped  in  the  fringe 
of  cedars  to  frolic  and  feed.  Suddenly  a  flock 
of  smaller  birds  joined  them,  and  by  the  aid  of 
my  glass  I  discovered  that  they  were  cedar-birds. 
For  twenty  minutes  or  more  this  company  of 
fully  fifty  birds  romped  in  the  savin  tops,  as 
they  do  in  cherry-trees  in  summer,  the  screams 
of  the  robins  being  incessant.  Many  of  the 
robins  came  near  enough  for  me  to  scrutinize 
their  plumage  closely.  I  saw  none  but  male 
birds  among  them.  The  two  flocks  vanished  as 
suddenly  as  they  came,  and  I  could  find  no  trace 
of  either,  although  I  searched  and  waited  for 
them  more  than  an  hour.  These  birds  were 
seen  on  precisely  the  same  spot  as  the  large  flock 
of  robins  observed  January  11. 

Although  I  did  not  leave  the  woods  and  pas- 
tures until  sunset  with  its  exquisite  tints  had 
come,  I  saw  no  footprints  of  any  kind  in  the 
snow.  I  wished  that  I  could  linger  until  even- 
ing and  follow  the  soft  tread  of  rabbits  and 
mice,  the  moon  meanwhile  pouring  her  light 
into  the  enchantment  of  those  groves  of  snow- 
encumbered  trees. 


THE  SEA  IN  A  SNOWSTORM. 

FEBRUARY  came  in  under  the  guise  of  May. 
The  sky  of  Sunday,  the  first,  was  wonderfully 
blue  ;  its  'air  mild,  often  more  than  mild  ;  its 
clouds  were  like  the  pictures  in  my  old  physical 
geography.  I  could  almost  see  the  mystic  words 
cirrus,  cumulus,  stratus,  written  in  the  heavens. 
Tempted  by  the  mock  spring  I  extended  my 
walk  beyond  its  usual  limits,  infringed  on  Lex- 
ington, and  from  the  heights  of  Waverley  sur- 
veyed miles  of  glistening  hillsides  to  the  north 
and  west,  and  crowded  cities  to  the  south  and 
east.  Every  hollow  was  a  pool,  and  every  gla- 
cial furrow  in  the  hills  a  brook.  The  cabbages 
were  reasserting  their  rights  to  the  farmlands 
and  the  air  appurtenant  thereto. 

The  birds  revelled  in  the  warm  sunshine,  fly- 
Ing  for  the  love  of  flying,  and  calling  loudly  to 
each  other  for  the  sake  of  calling.  The  crows 
spoke  loudest  and  the  chickadees  most  often.  On 
a  sunny  bank  a  large  flock  of  goldfinches  were 
feeding  among  the  weeds  and  grasses.  I  counted 
fifty  of  them,  and  several  flew  away  before  the 
census  was  finished.  They  were  singing  enough 


THE  SEA   LV  A  SXOWSTORM.  19 

of  their  sweet  song  to  suggest  the  summer. 
Once  during  the  day  I  heard  the  "  phoebe  note  " 
of  the  chickadee,  and  twice  I  had  the  satisfaction 
of  hearing  crows  "  gobble."  They  do  not  often 
make  this  sound.  It  suggests  somewhat  the 
gobbling  of  a  turkey-cock.  So  warm,  thawing, 
and  genial  was  this  day  that  one  had  to  be  pes- 
simistic to  realize  that  it  was  only  a  mocking 
grin  on  the  mask  of  winter  and  not  a  smile  on 
the  lips  of  spring. 

But  Sunday,  February  8,  showed  winter  in 
his  true  colors  again.  The  day  was,  as  regards 
snow-laden  trees  and  drifted  roads,  a  duplicate 
of  the  last  Sunday  in  January.  Instead  of  en- 
joying the  snow  pictures  in  the  woods  and  pas- 
tures of  Arlington,  I  traversed  Crab  Alley, 
Bread  and  Milk  Streets,  and  that  meandering 
marvel  of  old  Boston,  Batterymarch  Street,  and 
gained  the  harbor  front  at  Rowe's  Wharf. 
Some  of  these  snow-covered  haunts  of  trade 
were  as  free  from  footprints  as  the  savin 
swamps  of  Arlington.  In  Crab  Alley  I  came 
to  tracks  in  the  snow  which  made  me  wonder 
whether  some  of  the  quail  from  the  Parker 
House  toast  had  not  escaped  alive.  Dainty 
little  steps  crossed  and  recrossed  the  narrow 
lane,  and  formed  a  dense  network  of  converging 
paths  at  the  back  door  of  a  small  chop-house. 
As  I  approached,  two  tame  doves  flew  noisily 


20  LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

from  behind  the  barrel  which  graced  the  door- 
step, and  several  English  sparrows  swung  from 
a  telephone  wire  overhead. 

I  looked  up  into  the  iron  caps  of  the  electric 
light  lamps  to  see  whether  the  sparrows  had 
built  in  them.  They  had.  In  Boston  and  sev- 
eral adjoining  cities  the  major  part  of  these 
iron  witch-caps  contain  sparrows'  nests.  Even 
the  lamps  which  are  suspended  over  the  streets 
and  drawn  in  daily  by  the  linemen  are  not  dis- 
dained by  the  birds. 

From  the  deck  of  the  Janus-natured  ferry- 
boat, which  was  pausing  for  the  time  between 
trips  to  the  Revere  Beach  cars,  I  looked  out 
upon  a  chilly  sky  and  sea.  The  waters  were 
restless,  the  wind  fierce  and  cold,  the  snow- 
flakes  stinging.  At  anchor  lay  a  large  steamer, 
black  and  thin.  The  odd  gearing  at  her  stern 
showed  that  she  was  an  ocean  cable  steamer. 
Beyond  her  was  a  four-masted  schooner.  I 
wondered  what  her  sailors  called  her  fourth 
mast.  Suddenly  my  wandering  eyes  were  fixed 
in  astonishment  upon  a  jaunty  form  floating  on 
the  water  within  less  than  fifty  feet  of  the  ferry- 
boat. It  had  emerged  from  the  cold  and  tossing 
waters  with  a  bounce,  shaken  itself,  and  begun 
a  bobbing  career  in  the  daylight  and  snow- 
flakes.  Pop  !  Down  went  its  head,  up  went  its 
tail  and  feet  and  it  was  gone  again.  During 


TEE  SEA   IN  A   SNOWSTORM.  21 

fifteen  minutes  it  bobbed  up  six  times  in  the 
same  spot,  staying  afloat  each  time  from  fifteen 
to  thirty  seconds,  and  below  about  two  minutes. 
It  was  black  above,  snowy  white  below,  and 
formed  in  the  likeness  of  a  duck.  It  was  a 
whistler,  a  duck  common  in  the  harbor  and 
along  our  coast  in  winter.  While  diving,  it  was 
probably  breakfasting  upon  small  shell-fish 
found  on  the  bottom. 

On  the  way  across  to  East  Boston  I  saw 
seven  or  eight  more  whistlers  and  over  fifty 
herring-gulls,  many  of  them  in  the  dark  plum- 
age peculiar  to  the  immature  birds.  Twenty 
minutes  later  I  stood  on  the  narrow  strip  of 
sand  left  between  the  poplar  walk  in  front  of 
the  Point  of  Pines  Hotel  and  the  angry  ocean. 
The  wind  was  northeast,  and  blowing  a  gale. 
The  tide  had  turned  half  an  hour  before,  but  it 
was  still  unusually  high.  Behind  me  the  Sau- 
gus  marshes  were  wholly  submerged.  A  few 
haystacks  alone  broke  the  monotony  of  gray 
water,  foam  and  scudding  snow.  To  the  north 
ought  to  have  been  seen  distant  Lynn,  but  the 
eye  was  met  only  by  stinging  snowflakes  and 
cold  wind.  My  train,  before  it  had  gone  an 
eighth  of  a  mile,  had  been  swallowed  up  in  steam 
and  hurrying  masses  of  snow.  Where  was  Na- 
hant  ?  There  was  not  a  trace  of  it.  The  hun- 
gry waves  broke  ten  ranks  deep  upon  the  flat 


22  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

sands  across  which  they  roared ;  but  beyond 
them  was  no  land,  —  only  the  fury  of  gray  and 
white  hanging  above  a  hissing,  greenish  gray 
and  white  below.  The  sand  was  brown,  not  a 
warm  brown,  but  a  cold,  shining,  grayish  brown 
with  no  kindness  in  it. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  whole  world  which 
my  eye  could  reach  to  suggest  warmth  or  happi- 
ness. True,  there  were  the  empty  buildings 
with  padlocked  doors  among  the  snow-covered 
trees,  but  they  were  more  desolate  and  soul-chill- 
ing than  anything  in  nature.  I  walked  among 
them  until  wearied  by  the  mockery  of  their 
signs  and  broken  paraphernalia.  Hideous  ki- 
osks, whose  blue  and  yellow  paint  was  partly 
covered  by  the  white  pity  of  the  storm,  told  in 
glaring  letters  of  "  Ice  Water,"  "  Red  Hot  Pop 
Corn,"  "  Sunshades  and  Fans,"  and  "  Clam 
Chowder."  The  wind  shrieked  through  their 
cracks  and  pelted  wet  snow  against  their  win- 
dows. In>the  amphitheatre  where  spectacular 
plays  are  given  on  summer  evenings  the  tide 
dabbled  with  the  rusty  wheels  of  a  sheet-iron 
car  marked  "  Apache."  Beyond  it,  canvas 
mountains  and  canons  were  swaying  and  creak- 
ing in  the  storm,  their  ragged  edges  humming 
in  the  wind.  A  sign  offered  "  Seats  for  50 
cents,  children  25."  The  seats  were  softly 
cushioned  by  six  inches  of  snow,  but  the  idle 


THE  SEA   IN  A   SNOWSTORM.  23 

summer  crowd  had  been  blown  away  by  the 
winter's  breath.  Only  a  flock  of  a  dozen  crows 
lent  life  to  the  arena. 

A  train  emerged  from  the  storm.  I  could  see 
its  dark  outlines ;  its  torn  column  of  steam ; 
the  swift  motion  of  its  many  wheels,  —  then  it 
was  gone,  engulfed  in  the  dizzy  vibration  of  the 
snow,  its  voice  unheard  amid  the  greater  voices 
of  the  sky  and  sea.  The  tide  was  going  down 
as  I  started  towards  home  on  the  hard  shining 
sand  of  Crescent  Beach.  I  think  at  least  two 
hundred  herring-gulls  passed  by  me,  flying 
slowly  against  the  gale  and  keeping  over  the 
water,  but  parallel  to  the  beach  and  about  a 
hundred  yards  from  it.  They  were  silent. 
Their  strong  wings  beat  against  the  storm. 
Now  and  then  one  plunged  into  the  foam  of  a 
breaking  wave,  or  glided  for  a  second  along  the 
trough  of  the  sea.  They  did  not  seem  like 
true  birds,  beings  of  the  same  race  as  humming- 
birds, sweet  -  voiced  thrushes, .  or  keen  -  witted 
chickadees.  They  were  rather  creations  of  the 
salt  waves  and  ocean  tempests ;  cold-blooded, 
scaly  things,  incapable  of  those  loves  and  fears, 
songs  and  quaint  nesting  ways  of  the  birds  of 
field  and  forest.  Near  Oak  Island  a  flock  of 
four  snow  buntings,  which  had  been  feeding 
among  the  bunches  of  seaweed,  rose  at  my  ap- 
proach and  flew  toward  and  past  me  up  the 


24  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

beach.  They  are  among  the  most  beautiful  of 
our  winter  visitors,  their  white  and  brown  plum- 
age being  a  sight  always  welcome  to  the  eyes  of 
those  who  love  the  birds.  At  intervals  flocks  of 
English  sparrows  rose  from  the  seaweed  and 
shunned  me.  There  seems  to  be  no  form  of 
vegetable  food-supply  upon  which  our  native 
birds  depend,  that  this  ravenous,  non-migratory 
pest  does  not  devour. 

From  Point  of  Pines  to  Crescent  Beach  sta- 
tion the  thunder  of  the  breakers  and  the  rush  of 
the  wind  and  snow  were  ceaseless.  The  storm 
hurried  me  along  in  its  strong  embrace  and  drove 
its  chill  through  me.  The  tide  had  left  the 
marshes,  and  the  snow  had  claimed  them.  As 
the  waves  retreated  from  the  beach  the  snow 
stuck  to  the  gleaming  pebbles,  the  snaky  bits  of 
kelp  and  the  purple  shells.  Where  two  hours 
before,  at  high  tide,  the  waves  had  dashed  foam 
fifty  feet  into  the  air,  now  the  breakwaters  and 
the  heaps  «of  shingle  and  seaweed  were  covered 
with  white  from  the  drippings  of  the  great  roof 
of  sky. 

The  whistlers  were  still  in  the  harbor  at  three 
o'clock,  but  most  of  the  gulls  had  gone.  Snow 
clung  to  decks,  masts,  yards,  furled  sails  and 
rigging.  It  whitened  the  water-front  of  the 
city,  purified  the  docks,  and  made  even  Crab 
Alley  seem  picturesque  as  I  ploughed  through  it 
homeward  bound. 


TWO  VIEWS  THROUGH  WINTER  SUN- 
SHINE. 

SATURDAY  and  Sunday,  the  middle  days 
of  February,  were  filled  to  the  brim  with  spar- 
kling winter  sunshine.  The  heavens  were  swept 
clean  of  clouds  by  a  rush  of  cold  dry  air  from 
the  birthplace  of  the  Great  Glacier.  The 
ground  was  like  granite,  and  was  well  covered 
with  the  snow  that  crunches  under  foot  like  pul- 
verized quartz. 

I  spent  Saturday  afternoon  on  the  highest 
part  of  the  Belmont-Arlington  ridge,  and  the 
world,  seen  from  those  wind-swept  heights, 
seemed  made  of  cleaner,  brighter  stuff  than 
when  touched  on  the  flats  below.  There  are 
clear  days  in  summer,  but  they  are  not  so  abso- 
lutely clear  as  the  clearest  days  in  winter.  I 
never  saw  a  more  perfectly  transparent  air  than 
that  which  raced  across  New  England  on  that 
Saturday.  The  vision  was  not  checked  by  dis- 
tance or  by  vapor ;  only  by  the  curve  of  Mother 
Earth's  cheek. 

Looking  eastward  from  the  heights,  the  eye 
passed  over  the  Fell  country  of  Medford  and 


26  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

Stoneham  and  the  marshes  of  the  Saugus  to  the 
irregular  line  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  Long 
Beach,  running  out  from  Lynn  to  Nahaut,  was 
dazzlingly  white  against  the  pure  blue  of  the  sea. 
Little  Nahant,  Egg  Rock,  Nahant  and  Winthrop 
Head,  all  snow-covered,  stood  out  in  bold  relief 
against  the  even-tinted  water.  Between  them 
several  schooners  appeared  now  and  then  work- 
ing up  the  coast,  the  sunlight  striking  full 
against  their  sails.  High  intervening  land  cut 
off  a  view  of  the  wooded  and  rocky  Beverly 
shore ;  but  the  Danvers  Asylum  could  be 
plainly  seen,  like  a  great  feudal  castle,  crowning 
one  of  the  highest  ridges. 

Southward  a  nest  of  cities  rested  on  the  fork 
of  the  Charles  and  the  Mystic.  The  chilled 
breath  of  half  a  million  people  hung  over  them 
and  their  crowded  homes,  but  it  did  not  obscure 
the  picture  of  the  harbor  with  its  forts,  islands, 
and  moving  sails,  nor  the  more  distant  pano- 
rama of  the  Neponset  Valley  and  Hull,  Hing- 
ham,  and  the  Scituate  shore.  This  view  of 
Boston  and  its  densely  populated  neighbors  has 
a  strange  fascination  about  it.  There  is  little 
beauty  in  its  blending  of  roofs,  chimneys,  tele- 
graph poles,  church  spires,  flashing  window- 
panes  and  bits  of  white  steam  or  darker  smoke, 
yet  in  spite  of  its  distance  and  silence  it  has  the 
mystery  of  life  about  it.  From  a  mountain-top 


TWO  VIEWS  THROUGH  WINTER  SUNSHINE.     27 

the  eye  may  roatn  over  granite  peaks,  serried 
ranks  of  spruce  forest,  undulating  groves  of 
pines  and  birches,  green  intervales  and  snug 
farmhouses,  finding  in  them  a  restful  charm, 
a  song  of  sweet  New  England  calm.  In  this 
mass  of  distant  houses,  factories,  grain  ele- 
vators, stores,  wharves,  churches,  marked  here 
and  there  by  historic  outlines  like  Bunker  Hill 
Monument,  the  golden  dome  of  the  State 
House,  Memorial  Hall  and  Mount  Auburn 
Tower,  there  is  something  which  stirs  and  stim- 
ulates rather  than  soothes,  something  which  re- 
calls the  toil,  sorrow,  self-sacrifice  and  eternal 
restlessness  of  society,  and  the  ever-present  duty 
of  the  individual  toward  it.  The  mountain 
view  lulls  one's  conscience  ; '  the  sight  of  this 
nest  of  cities  arouses  it  to  action. 

Westward  the  view  from  the  heights  was 
monotonous.  Low  ridges  succeeded  each  other 
for  many  miles,  holding  in  their  hollows  towns, 
snow-covered  farming  lands,  broken  bits  of  oak 
or  pine  forest,  and  patches  of  ice  on  pond  or 
meandering  river.  But  northward  the  eye  found 
much  to  rest  upon.  Along  the  limits  of  Middle- 
sex could  be  seen  the  valley  of  the  Merrimac. 
Then  came  the  border  towns  of  New  Hampshire, 
and  beyond  them  the  peaks  and  rounded  sum- 
mits which  are  the  pride  of  Jaffrey,  Dublin. 
Peterborough,  Temple,  and  Lyndeborough. 


28  LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

From  Wachusett  on  the  left  to  the  Uncanoo- 
nucs  on  the  right  the  horizon  was  roughened 
by  the  mountains  of  the  Monadnock  group, 
snow-crusted  and  flashing  in  the  sunshine.  They 
recalled  boyhood  days  and  adventures.  A  race 
from  a  bull  on  Monadnock,  a  moonlight  climb 
on  Lyndeborough,  a  thunder-storm  on  Pinnacle, 
a  July  picnic  on  Joe  English  hill. 

On  the  way  home  I  saw  a  flock  of  about 
twenty  cedar-birds  in  the  same  pasture  where  I 
saw  them  on  January  25.  They  were  cold  and 
listless,  allowing  me  to  approach  them  closely 
enough  to  see  the  scarlet  wax  on  their  wing- 
feathers.  Two  of  them  were  eating  barberries 
which  they  picked  one  by  one  while  clinging 
head-downwards  on  the  bending  stems.  The 
robins,  I  learned  from  a  fellow-observer,  had 
been  seen  not  only  that  day,  but  every  day  for  a 
month,  on  their  favorite  feeding-ground.  The 
flock  varies  in  size,  he  said,  from  twenty  to  fifty. 
As  I  hurried  along  over  the  snow  in  a  very 
windy  field  a  mouse  scampered  away  from  one 
bunch  of  grasses  to  another  and  plunged  into 
his  hole.  His  doorway  was  well  protected  by  a 
large  bunch  of  dried  grass. 

Sunday  I  took  an  early  train  for  Readville, 
crossed  the  pretty  triple-arch  bridge  over  the 
Neponset,  and  climbed  to  the  snowy  crest  of 
Blue  Hill.  Although  the  hill  is  nearly  three 


TWO  VIEWS  THROUGH  WINTER  SUNSHINE.     29 

hundred  feet  higher  than  Arlington  Heights, 
its  view  seemed  to  me  less  attractive.  It  is 
three  miles  farther  from  the  cities  ;  fifteen  miles 
farther  from  the  New  Hampshire  line,  and  in 
the  centre  of  a  country  less  picturesque  in 
formation  than  that  of  the  Middlesex  Fells. 
Moreover,  a  northwest  wind,  which  is  the  one 
most  likely  to  accompany  clear  winter  weather, 
carries  the  smoke  of  Boston  in  such  a  direction 
as  to  injure  the  Blue  Hill  view,  while  it  im- 
proves that  from  Arlington. 

As  I  looked  down  upon  the  Neponset 
meadows,  Ponkapog  Pond  and  Great  Pond,  I 
saw  moving  black  specks  which  reminded  me 
of  the  amusing  little  snow-fleas.  They  were 
skaters,  enjoying  the  ideal  weather  for  their 
graceful  exercise.  Passing  Governor's  Island 
and  heading  for  Broad  Sound  was  a  four- 
inasted  schooner  under  full  sail.  Not  a  bird 
was  to  be  seen  on  the  hill.  The  top  is  covered 
with  scrub-oak,  which  is  replaced  on  the  slopes 
by  small  nut-trees,  oak  saplings,  a  few  pines, 
birches  and  maples.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
food  for  any  kind  of  winter  bird.  In  the  estates 
below,  near  the  triple-arch  bridge,  I  saw  crows, 
chickadees,  two  tree  -  sparrows  and  a  downy 
woodpecker. 

As  I  came  back  to  and  through  the  city  by 
an  afternoon  train  I  wondered  which  was  less 


30  LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

wholesome  for  the  eye  of  man,  the  dingy 
monotony  of  dirty  white  houses  which  one 
used  to  see  in  suburban  streets,  or  the  nause- 
ating combinations  of  yellows,  greens,  cheap 
reds  and  discouraged  blues  which  are  now  the 
fashion. 


WAVERLEY  OAKS  AND   BUSSEY   HEM- 
LOCKS. 

A  FEW  rods  beyond  the  railway  station  in 
Waverley  the  tracks  of  the  Fitchburg  and  Mas- 
sachusetts Central  roads  cross  a  meadow  through 
which  Beaver  Brook  flows  on  its  way  to  the 
Charles.  In  this  meadow  the  towns  of  Belmont, 
Watertown  and  Waltham  find  a  common  cor- 
ner, and  here  stand  the  Waverley  oaks.  Some 
of  these  ancient  trees  grow  on  the  level  land 
through  which  the  brook  has  cut  its  channel, 
but  most  of  them  rise  from  the  narrow  glacial 
ridges  which  project  into  or  border  the  meadow. 
There  are  few  places  near  Boston  which  welcome 
spring  earlier  than  this  moist  and  sunny  corner. 
Here  early  spring  birds  are  found,  and  many  of 
the  choicest  flowers  flourish.  Saturday,  Febru- 
ary 21,  was  a  misty,  moisty  day  with  gray  skies, 
wet  snow  and  rain-laden  air.  Beaver  Brook 
meadow  was  as  wet  as  a  meadow  can  be  without 
changing  its  name,  and  the  brook  itself  was 
more  than  knee-deep. 

The  meadow,  that  afternoon,  yielded  to  me 
the  first  flower  of  spring.  It  is  true  I  had  seen 


32  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

a  golden  crocus  bud  before  leaving  the  city,  but 
it  was  under  the  shelter  of  a  well-warmed,  south- 
facing  house,  and  had  been  covered  with  a 
straw  blanket  all  winter.  This  flower  of  the 
swamp  had  taken  care  of  itself  on  the  edge  of  a 
cold  spring  filled  with  bright  green  watercress. 
It  had  no  warm  wall  to  shelter  it,  no  blanket 
save  the  black  mud.  It  was  as  large  as  a  tulip, 
and  its  spots  and  stripes  of  purple  and  greenish 
yellow  made  it  quite  conspicuous  in  its  meadow 
bed.  Pulling  open  the  fleshy  lips  of  its  highly 
scented  spathe,  its  yellow  pollen  was  scattered 
in  all  directions.  The  name  of  this  odoriferous 
flower  of  early  spring  is  symplocctrpus  fcetidus. 
Passing  through  the  ancient  oaks  I  heard  birds 
singing  in  a  stubble  field  beyond.  The  oaks  are 
the  finest  trees  I  have  ever  seen  "outside  of  the 
primeval  forests  of  the  North.  One  of  them  — 
not  the  largest  or  oldest  —  measured  twenty  feet 
around  its  trunk  at  a  height  of  three  feet  from 
the  turf.  There  are  in  all  nearly  thirty  of  these 
magnificent  trees,  whose  age,  if  John  Evelyn  is 
a  good  authority  for  the  age  of  oaks,  is  prob- 
ably to  be  reckoned  by  centuries.  The  glacial 
kame  from  which  these  trees  spring,  old  as  it  is, 
bears  on  its  face  the  record  of  change  and  of 
the  woes  of  nature ;  but  the  oaks,  having  out- 
lived generations  of  other  trees,  seem  like  moun- 
tain-crests, stable  and  enduring.  The  birds  in 


WAVERLEY  OAKS  AND  BUSSEY  HEMLOCKS.    33 

the  stubble  field  proved  to  be  tree-sparrows. 
They  were  feeding  on  the  seeds  of  weeds  found 
on  patches  of  moist  earth  left  bare  by  the  wast- 
ing snow.  Each  bird  was  saying  something  in 
a  joyous  recitative  which  he  maintained  continu- 
ously, regardless  of  the  rippling  mirth  of  his 
companions.  I  crept  close  to  them  and  watched 
them  through  the  embrasures  of  an  old  stone 
wall.  Their  chestnut  caps,  white  wing-bars  and 
long  slender  tails  make  them  easy  birds  to  re- 
cognize. As  I  rose  they  flew,  nearly  thirty 
strong,  and  vanished  in  the  mist. 

Recrossing  Beaver  Brook  I  kept  along  the 
Belmont  ridge  for  a  mile  or  more,  seeing  crows, 
chickadees,  a  flock  of  six  cedar-birds,  a  brown 
creeper,  several  kinglets  and  two  grouse,  seven 
species  all  told. 

As  sunset  drew  near  the  mist  became  denser. 
The  few  springtails  which  I  saw  along  the  stone 
walls  seemed  sluggish.  While  watching  them 
I  noticed  a  tunnel  under  the  snow,  made,  I  sup- 
pose, by  a  field  mouse  (arvicolapennsylvanicus), 
and  running  from  the  wall  to  a  pile  of  brush  in 
the  pasture.  It  twisted  and  wound  in  and  out 
in  strange  figures.  Here  and  there  its  maker 
seemed  to  have  poked  his  head  through  the 
snow  to  get  his  bearings.  From  the  length  of 
these  tunnels  I  inferred  that  their  little  engineer 
works  either  very  fast  or  very  long  in  making 


34  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

them.  The  snow  fell  Friday,  the  tunnels  were 
made  before  Saturday  afternoon,  yet  one  of 
them  was  fully  three  hundred  feet  long. 

At  the  sunset  hour  a  strange  glow  permeated 
the  mist,  but  it  soon  vanished.  I  left  the  hills 
and  crossed  the  Belmont  meadows.  The  twi- 
light was  weird.  The  mud  of  the  Concord  turn- 
pike seemed  unnaturally  yellow ;  the  pollard 
willows  assumed  horrid  shapes ;  head-lights  on 
distant  engines  made  menacing  gleams  on  the 
wet  rails  ;  the  great  excavations  in  clay  beds 
near  the  brickyards  were  filled  with  black  shad- 
ows from  which  rose  vapors  ;  brooks  once  clear, 
now  polluted  by  slaughter-houses,  gave  out  foul 
clouds  of  mist,  and  as  electric  lamps  along  the 
road  suddenly  grew  into  glowing  yellow  balls  in 
the  fog,  they  showed,  rising  above  them,  cruci- 
fixes of  this  nineteenth  century  on  which  are 
stretched  the  electric  wires  whose  messages  of 
good  or  evil  keep  the  nerves  of  society  forever 
uneasy. 

Sunday  was  a  cheerful  contrast  to  Saturday 
night.  With  a  young  friend  who  was  heart-full 
of  love  for  birds,  flowers,  the  quiet  of  the  woods 
and  the  music  of  the  brooks,  I  tramped  from 
Bussey  Woods  westward  through  the  quiet  lanes, 
snow-covered  pastures  and  secluded  swamps 
which  fill  the  sparsely  settled  region  in  this  cor- 
ner of  Brookline  and  West  Roxbury.  It  is  a 


WAVERLEY  OAKS  AND  BUSSEY  HEMLOCKS.   35 

charming  bit  of  country  crowded  with  hills,  deep 
valleys,  groves  of  many  kinds  of  trees,  roaring 
brooks,  fern-hung  ledges  of  pudding-stone,  and 
sunny  orchards.  Birds  were  numerous.  We 
began  with  a  golden-winged  woodpecker  in  the 
great  trees  of  the  Arboretum ;  then  a  robin  ap- 
peared and  snapped  his  tail  at  us  from  the  top 
of  an  elm.  The  voice  of  a  blue  jay  came  from 
the  evergreens,  and  chickadees  were  everywhere. 
From  the  first  bare  hill  we  gained  a  broad  view 
of  Boston,  the  harbor  and  the  country  from  Blue 
Hill  to  Arlington  Heights.  A  fresh  west  wind 
and  a  bright  blue  sky  made  everything  seem 
full  of  readiness  for  spring  and  a  new  period  of 
blossoming  growth.  Passing  Allandale  Spring 
and  gaining  a  ridge  beyond,  we  heard  the  mew- 
ing of  a  large  hawk,  and  presently  saw  a  pair 
of  fine  red-shouldered  hawks  quartering  over  a 
meadow,  probably  in  search  of  mice.  They  rose 
and  perched  for  a  moment  in  the  top  of  a  tall 
dead  tree.  In  Walnut  Hills  Cemetery  we  found 
quail  tracks  under  barberry  bushes,  and  pres- 
ently flushed  a  bird.  We  also  saw  a  kinglet 
in  the  swamp.  Red  squirrels,  mice,  rabbits,  and 
another  quadruped  evidently  very  abundant  in 
the  region,  had  made  multitudes  of  tracks  in  the 
soft  wet  snow.  Just  what  this  other  quadruped 
was  I  cannot  surely  say,  but  if  it  was  what  I  sus- 
pect it  to  have  been,  I  should  prefer  not  to  travel 


36  LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

much  by  night  in  its  company.  A  chipmunk, 
finding  the  mouth  of  his  hole  free  from  snow, 
had  come  out  from  it  into  the  driveway  and 
made  a  few  scampering  circles  where  the  snow 
was  shallowest. 

As  we  n eared  the  edge  of  Newton,  we  saw  a 
downy  woodpecker  with  his  red  cap  on.  In  the 
swamp  beyond  were  grouse  tracks,  and  foot- 
prints of  a  man  and  dog.  Both  the  latter  had 
been  running,  and  I  fancied  the  dog  had  started 
a  rabbit  which  the  man  had  hurried  to  head  off 
at  a  point  where  a  wood-road  rounded  the  corner 
of  the  hill.  Soon  after  crossing  the  Newton  line 
we  turned  toward  the  southeast  and  walked 
rapidly  back  to  the  top  of  Bellevue  Hill.  Wa- 
chusett  and  Monadnock  greeted  us  from  the  far 
horizon,  and  a  marvelous  blending  of  bay,  city, 
park,  suburban  settlement,  and  untouched  na- 
ture surrounded  us  on  every  side.  Fortunate 
Boston,  to  be  girdled  by  such  diversified  and 
picturesque  country  !  The  view  from  this  hill  is 
readily  gained  by  walking  from  Highland  Sta- 
tion, and  it  seemed  to  me  more  charming  than 
that  from  Blue  Hill. 

The  last  pleasure  of  the  day  was  in  exploring 
the  hemlock  woods  at  the  Arnold  Arboretum. 
Thanks  to  an  arrangement  with  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, the  people  of  Boston  have  the  use  of 
this  beautiful  estate  for  all  time.  While  its 


WAVERLEY  OAKS  AND  BUSSEY  HEMLOCKS.   37 

systematic  collections  are  as  yet  young  and  in- 
complete, its  natural  beauties  are  many.  Just 
north  of  Bussey  Street  an  abrupt  rocky  hill, 
crowned  with  tall  and  singularly  straight  hem- 
locks, rises  above  the  surrounding  fields  and  roll- 
ing pastures.  From  its  deeply  shaded  top  look- 
ing down  its  precipitous  ledges  upon  the  roaring 
waters  of  the  Bussey  brook,  I  seemed  to  feel  my- 
self removed  from  the  neighborhood  of  a  great 
city  to  one  of  those  wild  White  Mountain  ravines 
where  trout  are  hidden  in  the'  torrents,  where 
the  harsh  scream  of  the  pileated  woodpecker 
breaks  the  silence  of  the  forest,  and  where  the 
hoof-print  of  the  deer  is  of tener  found  than  the 
footstep  of  a  man. 


THE  FIRST  BLUEBIRDS. 

SOME  of  the  wildest,  roughest,  and  most  heav- 
ily timbered  country  within  sight  of  Boston  lies 
in  the  western  end  of  Winchester  and  along  the 
northern  edge  of  Arlington.  I  reached  it  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  last  day  of  winter,  by  walk- 
ing along  the  western  shore  of  Mystic  Pond  until 
near  the  Winchester  line,  then  bearing  to  the 
left  until  I  gained  the  high  wooded  ledges  which 
command  Winchester  village  from  the  west.  It 
was  a  blustering  day :  the  air  was  filled  alter- 
nately with  golden  sunlight  and  flurries  of  large 
snowflakes.  Dry  snow  covered  the  ground. 
Along  the  stone  walls  it  had  drifted  heavily, 
reaching  in  many  places  a  depth  of  two  feet. 
Walking  in  the  ploughed  fields  was  uncertain, 
the  furrows  being  filled  with  snow  and  the  ridges 
blown  free  from  it.  The  brooks  were  noisy,  but 
their  music  was  muffled  by  decks  of  thin  ice 
which  partially  covered  them.  Great  white  air- 
bubbles  rolled  along  under  these  ice  decks. 
Here  and  there  watercress,  buttercup  leaves 
and  long  blades  of  grass  could  be  seen  pressed 
upward  against  the  transparent  ice  by  the  pulsat- 


THE  FIRST  BLUEBIRDS.  39 

ing  current.  In  one  pool  in  the  pine  woods  the 
floor  of  the  little  basin  was  studded  with  scarlet 
partridge  berries,  surrounded  by  their  rich 
green  leaves. 

The  view  from  the  crest  of  the  ledges  was  well 
worth  a  harder  climb.  Mystic  Pond  is  beautiful 
in  itself,  but  it  is  made  more  so  by  the  Fell  coun- 
try, rugged  and  snow-laden,  rising  above  it. 
Winchester,  with  its  many-colored  cottages 
sprinkled  over  the  snow,  made  a  pleasing  pic- 
ture. Beyond  pond,  village,  and  the  Fells, 
loomed  the  distant  heights  upon  which  the  Dan- 
vers  Asylum  showed  its  gloomy  walls.  The 
snow  flurries  which  blurred  the  distance  made 
the  nest  of  cities  along  the  Charles  softer  and 
more  picturesque  than  usual.  The  ledges  are 
well  wooded.  Pitch-pines,  cedars  and  a  sprin- 
kling of  hardwood  cover  them.  Among  these 
trees  were  crows,  a  small  hawk,  a  blue  jay,  two 
kinglets,  two  little  brown  creepers,  and  nearly  a 
dozen  chickadees.  The  creepers  and  two  of  the 
chickadees  were  working  together.  Both  pairs 
of  birds  signalled  each  other  constantly.  If  a 
creeper  flew  it  told  its  mate,  who  soon  followed, 
usually  flying  to  the  same  tree.  The  chickadees 
sometimes  went  to  the  same  tree  also,  and  seemed 
to  be  always  within  forty  or  fifty  feet  of  the 
creepers. 

From  this  hill,  which  used  to  be  called  Mt. 


40  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

Pisgah,  I  made  a  bee  line  for  Turkey  or  One 
Pine  Hill,  in  Arlington.  Much  of  the  interme- 
diate region  is  filled  with  white  pines.  In  one 
grove  of  many  hundred  large  pines,  the  effects  of 
the  dark  green  roof,  pure  white  floor  and  straight 
brown  columns  forming  radiating  vistas  were 
impressive,  none  the  less  so  from  the  silence  and 
the  cold.  From  a  brier  thicket  on  the  edge  of 
this  wood  a  grouse  flew  noisily.  Near  Turkey 
Hill  was  an  odd  meeting  of  paths  in  the  snow. 
A  horse  and  sled,  a  man,  a  large  dog,  two  quail, 
a  rabbit,  and  a  mouse  had  all  left  their  prints  on 
a  square  rod  of  snow. 

It  was  the  last  calendar  day  of  winter.  The 
sun  was  going  down  in  wrath.  The  wind  blew 
across  the  top  of  One  Pine  Hill  impatiently. 
One  Pine,  with  its  sixty  stubs  of  dead  and 
broken  branches,  trembled,  and  told  by  its  fee- 
bleness of  the  approaching  day  when  One  Pine 
Hill,  successor  of  Three  Pine  Hill,  shall  become 
No  Pine  Hill. 

March  came  in  at  midnight  smiling.  The  big 
yellow  moon  looked  down  upon  the  soft  snow 
which  had  fallen  since  sunset,  wrapping  the  earth 
in  ermine.  I  chose  Lincoln  for  my  objective 
point,  and  reached  it  by  rail  early  in  the  fore- 
noon. The  air  was  keen,  very  keen,  the  sky 
faintly  blue  through  thin  clouds,  the  sun  only  a 
yellow  spot  in  the  south.  Leaving  the  railway 


THE  FIRST  BLUEBIRDS.  41 

I  wound  my  way  back  towards  Stony  Brook, 
passing  through  groves  of  small  oaks,  meadows 
full  of  treacherous  pools  covered  with  brittle  ice, 
belts  of  whispering  white-pines,  apple  orchards 
and  wood-roads  leading  up  hill  and  down,  end- 
ing nowhere.  Four  miles  of  this  wandering 
brought  me  to  Kendal  Green  station  in  Weston, 
with  a  record  of  twenty  crows,  eighteen  chicka- 
dees, sixteen  tree-sparrows  and  three  blue  jays. 
Every  farmhouse  seemed  to  have  its  two  or 
three  large  elms,  and  its  one,  two  or  three  noisy 
chickadees.  No  English  sparrows  were  to  be 
seen.  The  sleighing  throughout  the  region 
appeared  to  be  good  and  the  snow  in  the  fields 
was  more  than  six  inches  deep  on  a  level.  The 
aspect  of  the  country  was  much  more  wintry 
than  it  was  nearer  the  coast,  yet  Lincoln  is  only 
thirteen  miles  northwest  of  the  State  House. 
For  two  weeks  past  the  pussy  willows  had 
been  increasing  in  size  and  beauty.  Some  of 
them  had  now  reached  their  most  attractive 
state,  for  when  they  begin  to  push  out  their 
yellow  stamens  they  lose  much  of  their  peculiar 
charm.  Near  Kendal  Green  I  found  a  noble 
family  of  these  little  Quakers.  They  were  large, 
and  closely  set  on  their  stems.  Within  a  foot 
of  the  tip  of  one  wand  were  thirty  pussies,  each 
measuring  from  a  half  to  three  quarters  of  an 
inch  in  length.  Lincoln,  judging  by  the  tracks 


42  LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

in  the  snow,  is  well  stocked  with  rabbits,  field 
mice  and  skunks.  It  showed  me  the  first  fox 
track  I  have  seen  in  Massachusetts  this  winter. 
A  fox's  track  resembles  closely  that  of  the  dog, 
but  it  has  some  marked  distinctions.  The  fox 
often  clips  the  snow  with  his  toes,  thus  prolong- 
ing his  footprint  slightly ;  he  also  has  a  longer 
stride  than  a  dog  of  the  same  size,  and  sets  his 
feet  more  nearly  in  a  single  line.  The  footprints 
of  the  skunk  are  grouped  in  fours,  and  the  four 
prints  in  each  group  are  very  nearly  in  line  ;  the 
first  and  third  being  a  little  to  one  side,  and  the 
second  and  fourth  to  the  other  side,  of  an  imagi- 
nary middle  line. 

Just  above  Kendal  Green  station  the  railway 
builders  have  taken  a  large  bite  out  of  a  gravelly 
hillside.  The  bitten  spot  faces  southeast  and  is 
as  warm  a  nook  on  a  windy  winter  day  as  could 
well  be  found.  It  is  stocked  with  dried  weed 
stalks,  sumacs  with  their  prince's  feather-like 
spikes,  and  red  cedars  covered  with  fruit.  As  I 
rounded  the  corner  of  the  bitten  bank,  Spring 
herself  stepped  out  to  meet  me,  for  twelve  blue- 
birds rose  in  a  flock  and  flew  into  the  cedars  and 
apple-trees  which  surmounted  the  cutting.  It 
was  1.30  P.  M.,  and  as  every  cloud  had  vanished 
from  the  sky  the  sunlight  brought  out  the  color- 
ing of  these  beautiful  birds  with  marvelous  in- 
tensity. It  is  hard  to  say  which  is  loveliest,  the 


THE  FIRST  BLUEBIRDS.  43 

cerulean  flash  from  their  backs,  or  the  chestnut 
warmth  of  their  round  breasts.  I  watched  and 
listened  to  these  birds  for  more  than  an  hour. 
They  were  joyously  happy.  They  flew,  they 
basked  in  the  sunlight,  they  went  to  the  orchard 
and  peered  into  a  hole  in  an  apple  limb  in  which 
many  a  bluebird  has  probably  been  hatched ; 
they  hovered  all  over  the  cedars,  eating  their 
bluish,  aromatic  fruit ;  they  perched  on  the  ice 
at  the  brink  of  Stony  Brook  and  drank  from 
the  rushing  water ;  they  pecked  at  the  sumac 
spikes,  they  sipped  melting  snow  on  the  slate 
roof  of  the  freight  house  ;  they  swung  on  the  tele- 
graph wires,  and  they  filled  the  air  with  their 
sweet,  simple  notes.  The  station  -  master  said 
some  of  them  had  been  seen  the  Wednesday  pre- 
vious. At  last  I  left  them  unwillingly,  and 
walked  down  the  track  which  follows  Stony 
Brook  towards  Waltham.  In  the  swift  current 
between  the  ice  which  projected  far  out  from 
each  shore  a  muskrat  was  swimming  down 
stream ;  twice  he  dived  and  twice  he  surged 
along  with  the  cold  flood  before  I  passed  him. 


THE  MINUTE-MAN   IN  A  SNOWDRIFT. 

IT  is  not  often  that  snow-shoes  are  useful  in 
this  part  of  Massachusetts,  but  as  about  sixteen 
inches  of  a  recent  fall  remained  on  the  hills 
when  I  took  my  walk  on  Saturday,  March  7,  I 
found  snow-shoes  not  only  useful  but  neces- 
sary for  cross-country  travel.  My  shoes  were 
made  by  a  neat-fingered  farmer  in  the  White 
Mountains,  and  are  more  durable  than  many  of 
the  fancy  shoes  for  sale  among  athletic  goods. 
A  fish-shaped  frame  of  ash  with  two  cross 
braces  is  filled  with  a  coarse  mesh  of  rawhide. 
The  foot  is  secured  to  this  light  framework  by  a 
leather  toe-cap  from  which  straps  extend  across 
the  top  of  the  instep  and  around  the  ankle. 
The  heel  is  free  to  rise  and  fall  in  walking,  while 
the  heel  of  the  snow-shoe  is  loaded  to  make  it 
trail  upon  the  snow,  thus  keeping  the  toe  up 
and  away  from  snags. 

I  spent  most  of  Saturday  afternoon  on  the 
crest  of  a  high  hill  not  far  from  the  Belmont 
mineral  spring.  The  air  was  warm  and  clear, 
the  sunlight  intensely  bright,  and  the  sky  won- 
derfully blue.  Birds  were  few  and  far  between, 


THE  MINUTE-MAN  IN  A  SNOWDRIFT.      45 

and  it  is  possible  that  many  individuals  here  in 
the  winter  have  decamped  already.  Two  crows, 
two  chickadees,  two  brown  creepers,  six  rob- 
ins, four  quail,  constituted  my  list  for  the  day. 
The  robins  passed  overhead  about  three  o'clock, 
flying  high,  fast,  and  due  north.  They  may  not 
have  stopped  short  of  the  New  Hampshire  hills, 
for  which  they  seemed  to  be  aiming.  The  quail 
were  feeding  on  barberries,  and  judging  by  their 
tracks  there  seemed  to  have  been  eight  or  ten  of 
them  at  work.  A  quail's  footprint  looks  like 
the  barb  and  part  of  the  shaft  of  an  arrow 
pointing  in  the  direction  from  which  the  bird 
has  come.  When  they  hurry,  their  tracks  are 
run  together,  forming  a  continuous  line  of  per- 
petuated panic.  The  quail  were  quite  noisy  on 
Saturday,  making  a  harsh  call  unlike  their  "  bob, 
bob-white."  During  the  coming  week  or  fort- 
night the  number  of  kinds  of  birds  near  Boston 
is  likely  to  increase.  I  have  long  been  hoping 
to  see  crossbills,  redpoll  linnets,  siskins,  red 
bellied  nuthatches  and  others  of  the  winter 
birds,  but  this  is  an  off  year  for  them.  Now 
I  am  looking  for  redwing  blackbirds,  purple 
grackles  and  rusty  grackles,  song  sparrows, 
swamp  sparrows,  fox  sparrows,  purple  finches, 
pewees  and  other  early  migrants. 

About  sunset  on  Saturday  I  was  in  a  grove  of 
venerable  red  cedars.     The  lower   half   of  the 


46  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

trees  was  in  shadow,  the  upper  half  in  sun- 
light. Below,  all  seemed  cold  and  dreary  :  the 
unbroken  snow,  the  rough  trunks  of  the  trees, 
their  sombre  foliage.  Above,  all  seemed  warm 
and  cheerful :  the  bright  blue  sky,  the  passing 
bits  of  white  cloud,  the  upper  branches  of  the 
cedars  glowing  with  golden  olive-green.  I 
sought  an  open  ledge  where  I  could  see  from 
Blue  Hill  to  Monadnock,  and  watched  the  sun 
sink  into  a  bed  of  clouds.  The  after  effects  of 
color  were  pronounced.  Overhead  the  sky  was 
cobalt ;  low  in  the  east  it  was  pale  Prussian 
blue ;  in  the  north  it  was  deep  orange,  and  in  the 
west  silvery,  with  a  few  dark  ragged  clouds 
shredded  over  it.  After  sunset  and  just  before 
darkness  comes,  colors,  irrespective  of  the  out- 
lines of  the  objects  to  which  they  belong,  stand 
out  more  forcibly  than  at  any  other  time.  This 
was  noticeable  Saturday  evening.  The  red  of  a 
distant  steeple  was  aggressive ;  so  was  the  yellow 
of  some  tufts  of  dead  grass  waving  in  the  wind, 
and  so  was  the  russet  of  the  dried  leaves  on  a 
grove  of  oaks  or  beeches  two  miles  distant. 
The  sky  at  that  hour  was  a  matchless  back- 
ground for  the  copper-colored  stems  of  the 
willow  trees,  the  bewildering  network  of  descend- 
ing lines  in  an  elm's  branches  and  twigs ;  and 
the  distant  rows  of  maples  marching  along  an 
opposing  hilltop  with  the  orange  light  of  the 


THE  MINUTE-MAN  IN  A  SNOWDRIFT.       47 

northern  sky  burning  through  them.  Mist 
effects,  and  glimpses  of  distances  through  driv- 
ing snowflakes  are  fascinating,  because  they 
leave  much  to  the  imagination.  Views  of  clear 
sunset  skies,  radiant  with  color,  ranks  of  leafless 
trees  showing  black  against  the  snow,  peaks 
of  snow  growing  bluer  as  night  draws  on  — 
these  also  are  fascinating,  because  the  eye 
seems  to  gain  the  truth  about  whatever  it  rests 
upon.  Everything  is  clean-cut,  sharply  out- 
lined against  sky  or  snow,  sincere,  real,  satis- 
fying. 

Sunday,  the  8th,  was  as  warm  and  still  a 
day  as  the  month  of  March  is  capable  of  pro- 
ducing. From  early  morning  until  late  in  the 
afternoon  there  was  not  breeze  enough  to  rustle 
a  leaf,  much  less  to  cool  cheek  and  eye  smarting 
under  the  direct  and  reflected  rays  of  the  sun. 
I  took  an  early  train  to  Bedford  and  began  my 
walk  there,  not  because  of  the  charms  of  Bed- 
ford, but  because  the  train  went  no  further. 
Bedford  is  a  pleasant,  old-fashioned  village,  in 
the  midst  of  a  comparatively  flat  country. 
Walking  through  the  village  I  noticed  its  high- 
shouldered  and  many  windowed  meeting-house, 
its  haughty  elms,  and  its  air  of  ancient  respecta- 
bility. Five  miles  away,  said  a  weather-worn 
guide  board,  is  Concord  town  ;  so  I  turned  west- 
ward, feeling  sure  that  early  spring  birds  must 


48  LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

haunt  the  home  of  Thoreau.  Just  outside  of 
Bedford  streets  I  sat  down  on  a  stone  wall  to 
bask  in  the  warm  sunshine.  The  mercury  stood 
at  68°  in  the  shade,  yet  a  snowdrift  close  by  was 
four  and  a  half  feet  in  depth.  The  bell  of  the 
old  meeting-house  was  tolling,  and  distance 
made  its  voice  sweet.  It  sometimes  seems  as 
though  church  bells  attract  the  birds.  In  the 
perfect  stillness  of  the  air  I  could  hear  many 
bird  notes.  A  yellowhammer  was  calling  per- 
sistently from  a  distant  maple ;  a  bluebird  sang 
in  the  nearest  orchard,  and  six  noisy  crows  were 
flying  to  and  fro  in  a  ploughed  field  examining 
spots  of  earth  left  bare  by  the  receding  snow. 
Presently  a  flock  of  three  blue  jays  entered  the 
orchard  and  seemed  to  find  satisfactory  food  in 
the  apples  left  on  the  ground  last  autumn. 

Between  Bedford  and  Concord  I  saw  eleven 
more  blue  jays,  a  dozen  more  crows,  thirteen 
chickadees,  five  tree-sparrows  and  the  tracks 
of  a  flock  of  ten  quail.  There  were  also  many 
crow  tracks  in  the  snow.  They  are  larger 
than  those  of  quail  and  the  print  of  the  long 
hind  toe  is  very  marked.  The  feature  of  the 
day  was  the  repeated  occurrence  of  blue  jays. 
The  birds  were  noisy  and  restless,  and  most  of 
them  were  moving  northward.  The  country 
through  which  I  passed  was*  level  and  uninter- 
esting. Little  timber  was  in  sight,  and  most  of 


THE  MINUTE-MAN  IN  A  SNOWDRIFT.       49 

the  farms  had  an  air  of  being  mortgaged.  Dirty 
cows  and  heifers  sunned  themselves  in  the  barn- 
yards, multitudes  of  hens  roamed  over  bare 
spots  around  the  buildings,  and  mongrel  curs 
barked  from  back  door-steps. 

Before  taking  an  afternoon  train  back  from 
Concord,  I  wandered  about  the  town  for  an 
hour,  admiring  its  aged  shade  trees  and  com- 
fortable homesteads.  In  front  of  one  of  these 
homesteads  a  red  squirrel  was  eating  buds  from 
the  upper  branches  of  the  elm.  If  the  British 
soldier  had  tried  to  reach  the  bridge  over  Con- 
cord River  he  would  have  had  hard  work  to 
get  at  the  "  embattled  farmer,"  for  snow  vary- 
ing from  ten  inches  to  more  than  two  feet 
in  depth  blocked  the  lane  leading  to  the  Minute- 
Man.  Only  the  foot  of  a  crow  had  trodden 
the  white  covering  of  historic  ground,  and  the 
silence  and  loneliness  but  added  to  the  charm 
and  suggestiveness  of  the  scene.  The  Old 
Manse  could  be  seen  through  the  leafless  elms, 
the  snow  drifted  high  against  its  walls.  The 
eager  river  hurried  along  under  the  bridge, 
bearing  away  many  a  raft  of  ice.  The  alert 
figure  in  bronze  stood  above  the  stream  gazing 
through  the  elm  vista  at  the  snow-covered  dis- 
tance. He  is  emblematic  of  something  more 
than  our  national  vigilance  against  political 


50  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

injustice.  Our  nation  was  not  formed  when  his 
musket  was  loaded.  He  was  simply  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  standing  for  his  rights.  That  is  what  he 
is  to-day,  —  the  spirit  of  the  race. 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

THE  week  between  March  8th  and  14th  was 
one  filled  with  early  spring  messages.  The  air 
whispered  them,  and  the  stems  of  the  willows 
blushed  with  joy  at  what  it  said.  The  sun 
stripped  the  snow  from  the  earth  and  found 
beneath  it  green  grass,  buttercup  and  five- 
finger  leaves  and  the  sage-green  velvet  of  the 
mullein.  Ice  moved  in  the  streams  and  partially 
melted  on  the  marshes,  and  its  going  was  hailed 
with  merry  music  by  song-sparrows,  bluebirds, 
and  redwing  blackbirds. 

Not  long  after  sunrise  on  Thursday,  the  12th, 
I  was  in  the  tangle  of  rose  bushes,  willows  and 
rushes,  which  surrounds  the  West  Cambridge 
brickyards  and  clay  pits.  It  was  a  still,  warm 
morning.  Birds  were  singing  on  every  side. 
They  were  not  chirping  pretty  fragments  of 
song,  but  pouring  out  in  all  the  plenitude  of 
fearless  happiness  their  greeting  to  home  and  a 
new  day.  Before  8.30  I  saw  nearly  a  dozen 
song  sparrows,  a  bluebird,  a  tree  sparrow,  a 
flock  of  twenty-six  cedar  birds,  large  numbers 
of  crows,  and  an  Acadian  owl.  My  meeting 


52  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

with  the  little  "saw-whet"  within  the  limits 
of  Cambridge,  and  in  sight  of  dozens  of  passers 
on  Concord  turnpike,  was  a  piece  of  unusual 
luck.  He  was  perched  in  a  large  willow  about 
thirty  feet  distant  from  the  sidewalk,  and  ten 
feet  from  the  ground.  As  I  jumped  the  fence 
and  approached  him  he  stiffened  himself,  drew 
his  feathers  close  to  his  body,  more  than  half 
closed  his  eyes  and  pretended  to  be  a  speckled 
brown  and  white  stump  of  a  limb.  As  I  raised 
a  broken  branch  before  his  face,  his  big  yellow 
eyes  opened  wide,  his  wings  quickly  spread  and 
he  fell  forward  upon  them  and  flapped  noiselessly 
to  a  distant  tree. 

Late  on  Friday  afternoon,  while  traversing 
the  marshes  between  Spy  Pond  in  Arlington 
and  Fresh  Pond  in  Cambridge,  I  saw  a  flock 
of  seven  blackbirds.  They  seemed  to  be  follow- 
ing up  Alewife  Brook  towards  the  marshes 
between  Cambridge  and  Belmont.  They  were 
beating  against  a  high  wind  and  flying  too 
high  for  me  to  be  sure  whether  they  were  red- 
winged  blackbirds  or  rusty  grackles.  Early 
Saturday  morning  I  set  out  to  find  them,  and 
not  long  after  sunrise  I  heard  the  familiar 
"  cong-ka-ree "  of  the  redwings  coming  from 
a  swamp  north  of  Fresh  Pond.  I  saw  three, 
the  one  nearest  me  being  a  male,  whose  scarlet 
and  buff  epaulets  fairly  blazed  in  the  sunlight. 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BIRDS.  53 

Prolonging  my  morning  walk  for  some  distance 
I  saw  five  song  sparrows,  three  bluebirds,  two 
herring  gulls,  four  robins,  a  meadow  lark,  a 
pigeon  woodpecker,  and  a  pair  of  sparrow 
hawks.  The  latter  showed  unmistakably  by 
their  love-making  that  they  were  paired  for  the 
season.  They  were  in  a  grove  of  lofty  hard- 
wood trees,  in  the  hollow  of  one  of  which  they 
have  nested  for  several  years. 

For  my  Saturday  afternoon  walk  I  chose  the 
belt  of  rough  country  north  of  the  Lexington 
Branch  Railway,  between  Arlington  village  and 
Great  Meadow  in  Lexington.  Leaving  the 
train  at  East  Lexington,  I  crossed  the  lower  end 
of  Great  Meadow  and  aimed  for  the  pine-crested 
ledges  to  the  north  and  east.  On  these  low- 
lands I  saw  two  song  sparrows  and  six  tree 
sparrows  in  company.  A  blustering  and  cold 
wind  was  blowing,  and  the  birds  kept  close  to 
cover.  The  tree  sparrows  allowed  me  to  come 
within  six  or  eight  feet  of  them,  in  preference 
to  flying.  In  the  midst  of  ploughed  and  ditched 
meadow  land  was  a  cup-shaped  hollow  filled 
with  a  frozen  bog.  Red  maples  grew  in  it 
thickly,  and  under  them  a  group  of  alders.  As 
i  passed  this  spot,  the  roaring  wind  almost  led 
me  to  ignore  a  sharp  squeak  of  alarm  from  a  bird 
which  was  scratching  in  the  leaves  on  the  edge 
of  the  hollow.  Fortunately  I  heard  it,  and  fol- 


54  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

lowed  the  bird  and  its  companion  until  they  flew 
from  bush  to  bush  into  a  maple.  They  were 
bright  iron-rust  color  on  their  tails,  rumps,  and 
wings,  and  their  white  breasts  were  thickly 
marked  with  arrowheads  of  the  same  pronounced 
shade.  In  size,  they  outranked  an  English 
sparrow  by  about  one  fifth.  They  were  fox 
sparrows.  In  plumage,  song,  and  character, 
these  sparrows  are  among  the  most  favored  of 
American  birds. 

Leaving  the  lowlands,  I  ascended  the  heavily 
wooded  ledges,  of  which  Turkey  or  One  Pine 
Hill  is  the  best  known.  Concealed  within 
them  is  a  deep  yet  sunny  ravine  where  hepatica 
grows,  and  over  which  in  the  tops  of  lofty  pines 
crows,  hawks,  and  gray  squirrels  make  their 
nests.  I  was  welcomed  to  this  sylvan  glen  by 
a  brown  rabbit,  who  permitted  me  to  come 
within  a  yard  of  him  before  displaying  his  cotton 
tail  in  flight.  Hepatica  was  not  in  bloom,  but, 
rising  between  its  trilobate  leaves  of  last  year's 
growth,  nearly  an  inch  of  new  sprout  promised 
early  flowers.  From  the  middle  of  the  dancing 
brook  at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine  to  the  stems 
of  the  great  pines  at  its  summit,  the  melting- 
snow  had  exposed  to  view  old  vegetation,  hold- 
ing new-born  life  in  its  protecting  arms.  In  the 
brook,  hundreds  of  heads  of  skunk-cabbage 
could  be  counted.  From  the  overhanging  rocks, 


THE   COMING   OF  THE  BIRDS.  55 

the  evergreen  fronds  of  four  species  of  ferns 
(including  asplenium  ebeneum)  nodded  in  the 
breeze.  Upon  the  sunny  banks  partridge  ber- 
ries and  the  clustered  jewels  of  the  false 
solomon's-seal  gleamed  among  green  leaves  and 
brown  pine  needles.  Three  kinds  of  pyrola, 
rattlesnake-plantain,  pipsissewa,  buttercup,  and 
three  club  mosses  decorated  the  steep  slopes. 
On  a  warm  gray  face  of  ledge  above,  a  generous 
growth  of  bearberry  spread  its  lustrous  green 
and  russet  leaves  to  the  sky,  and  close  by  the 
pale  corydalis  grew  in  abundance.  The  recent 
growth  in  some  of  these  plants  was  marked,  par- 
ticularly in  the  buttercup  (/2.  bulbosus')  and 
bearberry.  Walking  back  to  Arlington,  I  saw 
a  downy  woodpecker,  a  grouse,  two  golden- 
crested  kinglets,  four  chickadees,  a  dozen 
crows,  two  flocks  of  blackbirds,  including 
fully  forty  birds,  three  more  tree  sparrows,  a 
fat  spider,  two  black  and  orange  caterpillars, 
two  snow-squalls,  and  a  beautiful  golden  sunset. 
Saturday  night  was  clear  and  cold,  more  like  a 
winter  night  than  one  with  some  claims  to  the 
name  of  spring. 

Sunday,  the  middle  day  of  March,  was  bright 
and  blustering,  a  sharp  contrast  to  the  Sunday 
previous,  with  its  heat  and  strange  stillness.  I 
began  my  walk  at  Waverley,  and  went  by  way  of 
Quince  Street  and  Beaver  Street  to  the  easterly 


56     LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

slope  of  Prospect  Hill,  in  Waltham.  The  roads 
were  frozen,  and  the  meadows  stiff  with  ice. 
Here  and  there  roaring  brooks  passed  under  the 
road  and  danced  away  towards  the  Charles. 
The  spaces  between  them  were  in  some  instances 
filled  by  ledgy  hills  capped  and  sprinkled  with 
red  cedars,  some  of  which  were  sturdy  old 
trees  with  foliage  full  of  golden-olive  light. 
From  one  of  the  hills  came  a  gay  troop  of 
robins  flying  in  wide  circles  over  the  fields. 
One  of  them  sang  in  a  timid  way  the  song  of 
robin's  love.  It  was  the  first  attempt  at  the 
complete  song  that  I  had  heard  this  season. 
From  another  ledge,  covered  with  hardwood 
trees,  eight  chickadees  deployed  across  an  or- 
chard. Every  one  of  them  was  saying  some- 
thing merry.  On  the  edge  of  a  meadow  seven 
bluebirds  sat  in  the  low  branches  of  maple- 
trees,  and  dropped  one  by  one  to  the  ground 
to  pick  up  food  seen  by  their  quick  eyes  in 
the  grass.  I  saw  three  more  bluebirds  later 
in  the  day.  Near  the  foot  of  Prospect  Hill,  a 
flock  of  nearly  a  dozen  birds,  feeding  in  a  yard 
among  spruces  and  maples,  was  found  to  include 
chickadees,  brown  creepers,  and  a  kinglet.  I 
saw  four  brown  creepers  during  the  day,  one 
of  which  in  flying  described  curves  and  spirals 
in  the  air  which  would  have  made  a  tumbler 
pigeon  green  with  envy.  In  a  sheltered  nook 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BIRDS.  57 

by  a  spring,  a  thicket  of  evergreens,  and  a  brush 
fence,  two  fox  sparrows  popped  into  view  for 
a  moment.  Near  them  a  grouse  was  found  in 
a  pine  grove. 

The  eastern  side  of  Prospect  Hill  holds  in  its 
curve  a  spot  of  singular  beauty.  Behind  a 
veil  of  pine  woods  lies  hidden  a  rocky  amphi- 
theatre, through  which  flows  a  sparkling  stream 
of  spring  water.  Dozens  of  its  tiny  cascades 
were  framed  in  moss  and  ferns.  Its  worn 
boulders  were  partially  sheathed  in  ice,  and  in 
many  places  beds  of  snow  still  rested  upon  its 
banks  and  overhung  the  water.  The  background 
of  this  picture  was  a  steep  wall  of  rock  and  earth 
nearly  fifty  feet  in  height,  overhung  by  tall 
oaks,  walnut  and  ash  trees,  and  covered  with 
remnants  of  snow  drifts,  mossy  boulders  and 
patches  of  last  year's  ferns  nodding  in  the  wind. 

Scrambling  up  this  cliff,  I  found  myself  at 
the  summit  of  a  iiill  justly  noted  for  its  wide 
and  varied  view.  A  vast  and  irregular  city 
seemed  to  reach  from  its  southeastern  foot  to 
the  waters  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  Far  away 
to  the  southwest,  two  large  towns  could  be  seen 
rearing  their  spires  against  the  sky.  They  were 
about  in  the  direction  of  Westboro'  and  Milford. 
The  New  Hampshire  mountains  showed  to  much 
better  advantage  than  from  Arlington  Heights, 
and  I  could  clearly  identify  the  different  sum- 


58  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

mits  of  the  Monadnock  range.  But  this  was  not 
all.  Just  to  the  left  of  the  twin  Uncanoonucs 
was  what  appeared  to  be  the  southern  Kearsarge, 
in  Andover,  New  Hampshire.  This  peak  is 
seventy-five  miles  distant,  and  has  an  elevation 
of  2,943  feet.  I  am  less  confident  that  I  could 
distinguish  Agamenticus  in  York,  Maine,  but  a 
faint  blue  summit  broke  the  monotonous  sky 
line  near  the  point  at  which  this  hill  might  be 
seen  were  it  high  enough. 


THE  EQUINOCTIAL  ON  THE  DUNES. 

THE  dunes  of  Ipswich  in  Massachusetts  lie  in 
a  somewhat  secluded  and  peculiar  spot.  Facing 
the  open  ocean  between  Plum  Island  and  Coffin's 
Beach,  the  Ipswich  shore  presents  a  strange 
aspect  to  the  passing  world,  seaward,  skyward, 
or  landward.  It  is  a  rough  bit  of  desert,  made 
into  odd  shapes  by  wind,  tide,  and  river.  From 
no  point  of  view  is  it  commonplace. 

An  early  morning  train  from  Boston  landed 
me  on  March  21  at  Ipswich  station.  Rain 
fell  in  a  determined  way  upon  the  earth, 
the  snowdrifts,  and  the  rushing  Ipswich  River. 
In  a  rickety  buggy  drawn  by  a  lean  horse  I 
started  for  the  dunes.  It  was  a  five-mile  drive 
over  a  rolling  glacial  plain  and  wind-swept 
marsh  land.  As  the  sea  was  neared,  the  wind 
became  stronger  and  stronger.  The  buggy 
swayed  from  side  to  side  ;  the  lean  horse,  stung 
by  rain  in  front  and  whip  behind,  staggered 
feebly  on  against  the  storm ;  and  birds,  waves, 
sand,  trees,  marsh  grass,  the  face  of  the  water, 
—  everything,  in  fact,  which  could  move,  — 


60  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

either  fled  before  the  gale  or  writhed  under  its 
blows.  At  nine  o'clock  I  reached  a  lonely,  storm- 
battered  house,  half  concealed  among  the  sand- 
hills. The  Equinoctial  was  at  its  height.  It 
was  an  hour  when  prudence  bade  one  stay  in  the 
house,  but  when  that  which  makes  a  man  happy 
amid  the  rough  revelry  of  Nature  said,  Go, 
give  yourself  to  the  storm.  The  sea  could  not 
be  seen  from  the  house,  for  the  dunes  stood  in 
the  way,  but  the  wind,  the  breath  of  the  sea, 
told  where  it  lay.  The  wind  was  charged  with 
rain,  hail,  cutting  bits  of  sand,  the  odor  of  brine, 
and  the  roar  of  the  billowy  battle  beyond  the 
dunes. 

What  are  the  dunes  ?  They  are  the  waves  of 
the  sea  perpetuated  in  sand.  They  were  changing 
and  growing  at  that  moment,  as  they  are  at  every 
moment  when  the  winds  blow.  A  ridge  forty  feet 
high,  eastward  of  the  house,  was  hurling  yellow- 
ish sand  into  the  dooryard  and  against  the  build- 
ings. From  its  top  could  be  seen  a  hollow  be- 
yond and  then  another  ridge,  from  the  crest 
of  which  a  sand  banner  waved  in  the  wind. 
That  ridge  surmounted,  a  broader  hollow  was 
seen  beyond,  containing  lagoons  of  gleaming 
water  and  thickets  of  richly  colored  shrubs  and 
a  few  stunted  pines.  To  right,  left,  and  ahead, 
other  ridges  rose  like  mimic  mountains.  Some 
of  them  had  been  cut  straight  through  by 


THE  EQUINOCTIAL   ON  THE  DUNES.         61 

storms,  and  showed  plainly  wind  stratification 
on  their  cut  surfaces.  Wading  through  the 
pools,  from  which  a  few  black  ducks  rose  and 
flew  swiftly  out  to  sea,  I  gained  the  third  ridge, 
which  was  the  highest  of  the  dunes.  Beyond 
was  another  hollow,  then  a  fourth  dune,  then  a 
beach  strewn  with  seaweed,  shells,  and  wreck- 
age, and  finally  half  a  mile  of  snowy  breakers, 
boiling  and  hissing  on  their  rhythmic  journey 
shoreward.  At  times  the  eye  seemed  to  reach 
further  out  to  sea,  but  at  once  the  rain,  foam, 
and  driving  cloud-masses  closed  in  on  the  waves, 
and  sky  and  ocean  were  combined  in  an  attempt 
to  overwhelm  the  dunes.  Walking  upon  the 
beach  was  like  wrestling  with  a  strong  man. 
Looking  through  the  stinging  rain  was  almost 
impossible.  Not  far  up  the  beach  was  the  wreck 
of  a  small  schooner.  It  was  half  buried  in  the 
sand  and  just  within  reach  of  the  waves.  Stream- 
ing with  rain,  my  face  smarting  from  the  flying 
sand,  and  my  breath  exhausted,  I  gained  the 
wreck  and  sought  a  refuge  in  its  interior. 

The  wreck's  ribs  rose  high  into  the  air,  and  a 
part  of  her  sheathing  had  not  yet  been  beaten  off 
by  gales.  The  waves  struck  this  wall  of  plank  and 
sent  shiver  after  shiver  through  the  broken  hulk. 
Inside,  the  wind  had  little  effect,  and  the  water 
that  came  in  was  that  flowing  downward  from 
the  beach,  as  great  waves  broke  upon  the  sand 


62  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

and  then  swept  round  over  the  wreck's  buried 
side.  Peering  through  the  gaps  between  the  tim- 
bers, I  looked  down  into  and  across  a  raging 
mass  of  water.  It  was  equal  to  a  shipwreck 
without  the  fear  of  death.  Dozens  of  herring 
gulls,  now  and  then  a  black-backed  gull,  and 
every  few  minutes  small  flocks  of  black  ducks, 
flew  past  athwart  the  gale.  Sometimes  a  gull 
would  face  the  wind  and  fly  against  it  steadily, 
vigorously,  yet  never  advance  an  inch.  The 
ducks  looked  as  though  they  were  flying  back- 
ward, so  oddly  balanced  were  they.  After 
nearly  an  hour  of  watching  I  waded  ashore,  fol- 
lowed my  tracks  back  across  the  sand-hills,  and 
gained  a  comfortable  "  stove-side  "  in  the  weather- 
beaten  house.  The  noonday  meal  of  fat  pork, 
boiled  corned  beef,  cabbage,  clams,  soda  bis- 
cuit, doughnuts,  mince  pie,  and  coffee  seemed 
in  some  degree  a  reasonable  complement  to  the 
gale. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  in  company  with  two 
friends,  —  a  bird-watcher  and  a  mouse-hunter,  — 
I  faced  the  storm  again.  We  walked  north- 
ward rather  than  eastward,  keeping  within  the 
hollows  of  the  dunes  and  not  climbing  to  their 
windy  crests.  Rain  fell  in  torrents  and  in  larger 
drops  than  in  the  morning.  It  whipped  into 
foam  the  pale  blue  and  green  pools  between  the 
sand-hills.  Gusts  of  air  struck  these  pools  from 


THE  EQUINOCTIAL   ON  THE  DUNES.         63 

ever-varying  angles,  the  cliffs  and  passes  of  the 
mimic  mountains  making  all  manner  of  currents 
and  eddies  in  the  wind.  Kuffled  by  these  gusts 
the  pools  changed  color  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment, sometimes  being  white  with  foam  and 
reflected  light  from  the  sky,  then  varying 
through  every  shade  of  blue  and  sea-green  to 
ultramarine.  The  coloring  in  these  miniature 
valleys  was  exquisitely  beautiful.  In  some,  the 
yellow  sand,  over  which  lines  and  ripples  of  pur- 
ple sand  were  laid,  curved  from  every  side  with 
the  most  graceful  lines  downward  from  the 
ridges  to  a  single  tinted  mirror  at  the  centre. 
In  others,  where  the  valley  was  broader,  lagoons 
filled  with  tiny  islands  were  fringed  with  vegeta- 
tion of  striking  shades.  The  clumps  of  sturdy 
"  poverty  grass "  (hudsonia  tomentosa)  cov- 
ered much  of  the  ground,  its  coloring,  while  it 
was  wet  by  the  rain,  varying  from  burnt  umber 
to  madder  brown.  Over  it  strayed  scalp  locks 
of  pale  yellow  grasses,  restless  in  the  wind. 
Next  to  the  pools  and  under  them  grew  a  dense 
carpet  of  cranberry  vines,  yielding  shades  of 
dark  crimson,  maroon,  and  wine  color.  Lines 
of  floating  cranberries  edged  these  tiny  lakes, 
or  shone  like  precious  stones  at  their  bottom. 
Between  the  lagoons  and  011  their  islands  dense 
thickets  of  meadow-sweet  and  leafless  wild-rose 
bushes  formed  masses  of  intense  color,  the 


64  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

shades  running  from  rich  reds  through  orange 
to  gleaming  yellow.  The  rain  glistening  on 
these  warmly  tinted  stems  made  them  unnatu- 
rally brilliant. 

On  the  shores  of  some  of  the  lagoons,  or  form- 
ing small  conical  islands  in  their  midst,  were 
white  heaps  of  broken  clam-shells.  The  shells 
when  disturbed  seemed  to  be  embedded  in  fine 
black  soil,  like  that  left  by  long-extinguished 
fires.  When  these  shell-heaps  were  first  ex- 
plored they  contained  bones  of  many  kinds  of  fish 
and  birds,  including  fragments  of  that  extinct 
bird,  the  great  auk.  They  also  yielded  broken 
pieces  of  roughly  ornamented  pottery,  bits  of 
copper,  and  stone  implements  of  the  Indians 
who  had  made  the  Ipswich  River  and  its  sand- 
hills one  of  their  principal  camping-grounds. 
This  region  has  given  to  relic-hunters  bushels 
of  arrow-heads,  stone  knives,  and  hatchets. 

As  we  approached  the  largest  of  the  lagoons, 
which  covered  several  acres,  black  ducks  began 
to  appear,  flying  in  all  directions.  They  rose 
not  only  from  the  large  lagoon,  but  from  many 
smaller  pools  hidden  among  the  network  of 
dunes.  Over  a  hundred  were  in  the  air  at 
once.  Crows,  too,  and  gulls  joined  in  the 
winged  stampede  caused  by  our  coming.  One 
flock  of  crows  flying  towards  Cape  Ann  later  in 
the  afternoon  numbered  eighty-three  birds.  Our 


THE  EQUINOCTIAL   ON  THE   DUNES.         65 

walk  ended  at  Ipswich  Light,  a  small  beacon 
placed  on  the  edge  of  the  dunes  as  a  warning 
against  their  treacherous  sands.  A  bit  of  land 
near  it  had  been  reclaimed  from  the  desert 
and  gave  promise  of  being  a  garden  in  a  few 
weeks.  The  rain  was  at  its  fiercest  here,  and  beat 
upon  the  lighthouse  as  though  it  would  wash  it 
from  the  face  of  the  earth.  As  the  wind  blew 
the  sand  grass,  its  long  blades  whirled  around, 
cutting  circles  in  the  sand  with  their  tough  tips 
and  edges.  These  circles  could  be  seen  from  a 
long  distance,  so  deeply  and  clearly  were  they 
cut.  Sometimes  a  long  blade  and  a  short  one 
whirled  on  the  same  root  and  made  concentric 
circles.  The  geometrical  correctness  of  these 
figures  made  them  striking  elements  in  a  land- 
scape so  chaotic  as  the  dunes  in  the  Equinoctial. 

Scattered  about  over  the  sand  were  small 
star-shaped  objects  about  the  size  of  a  silver 
dollar,  and  brown  in  color.  They  looked  at 
first  glance  as  though  they  might  have  been 
stamped  out  of  thick  leather.  Whether  they 
were  fish,  flesh,  or  plant,  was  a  question  not 
readily  answered  by  a  novice.  They  proved  to 
be  a  kind  of  puff-ball,  common  in  such  regions  as 
the  dunes,  and  singularly  well  adapted  to  life  on 
shifting  sands. 

Through  the  long  night  of  the  21st  the  wind 
wailed  around  the  house,  and  the  sound  of  the 


66  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

waves  came  up  from  the  sea.  Long  before  sun- 
rise I  was  awakened  by  the  quacking  of  domes- 
tic ducks  in  the  inlet  just  in  front  of  my 
windows.  Fog  and  a  gentle  east  wind  ruled  the 
morning,  and  the  fog  made  queer  work  with 
outlines  and  perspective  among  the  sand-hills. 
Not  far  from  the  house  there  once  stood  a  fine 
orchard,  many  of  the  trees  in  which  had  attained 
a  generous  size  considering  their  exposed  situa- 
tion. But  the  dunes  marked  them  for  destruc- 
tion. The  greedy  sand  piled  itself  around 
their  roots,  rose  higher  and  higher  on  their 
trunks,  caught  the  tips  of  their  lower  branches, 
dragged  them  under  its  cold  and  deadly 
weight,  reached  up  to  those  higher,  and,  as  the 
trees  began  to  pine,  hurled  itself  against  their 
dry  leaves,  twigs,  and  branches,  then  set  to  work 
to  wear  away  the  trunks  themselves.  Rising 
through  the  fog,  these  remains  seemed  like  tor- 
tured victims  reaching  out  distorted  arms  for 
pity.  Only  a  few  of  the  trees  retained  branches 
having  green  wood  and  pliable  twigs,  and  these 
were  half  buried  by  recent  inroads  of  sand. 
They  reminded  me  of  the  fate  of  men  caught  in 
quicksands,  and  drawn  down  inch  by  inch  to 
their  death. 

Tracks  in  sand  are  almost  as  telling  records 
as  tracks  in  snow.  Skunks  had  wandered  about 
over  these  ridges  in  force.  They  do  not  find 


THE    EQUINOCTIAL   ON  THE  DUNES.         67 

their  food  among  the  hills,  but  on  the  shore 
where  the  carrion  of  the  sea  is  left  by  the  tide. 
The  ocean  edge  is  usually  strewn  with  dead  fish, 
sea  birds,  and  shell-fish.  Around  these  rem- 
nants are  to  be  seen  the  tracks  of  gulls  and 
crows,  or  the  birds  themselves.  That  morning 
the  upper  air  was  noisy  with  crows  coming  back 
from  their  night  roost.  They  soon  scattered 
along  the  beach,  feeding.  For  some  reason  the 
ducks  had  disappeared  from  the  lagoons.  A 
few  flew  past  up  the  coast,  but  the  greater  part 
seemed  to  have  already  moved  northward.  It 
was  upon  these  sand-hills  that  the  Ipswich  spar- 
row was  first  shot  in  December,  1868.  The  bird 
is  much  like  the  grass  finch  in  contour,  and  in 
behavior  when  approached  by  man.  Its  coloring 
is  that  of  the  Savannah  sparrow,  only  several 
shades  lighter.  During  the  March  migration 
the  Ipswich  sparrow  is  readily  to  be  found 
among  the  dunes.  Startled  by  my  coming,  three 
of  them  stopped  feeding  on  the  edge  of  a  small, 
clear  lagoon  and  flew  up  the  steep  side  of  the 
sand-hill  above  it.  This  sand-hill  was  dotted 
with  clumps  of  coarse,  yellowish  grass,  the  sand 
itself  was  a  shade  paler  than  the  grass,  and  the 
sparrows'  plumage  toned  in  with  both  so  per- 
fectly that  when  the  birds  alighted  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  see  them.  One  dropped  down 
behind  a  bunch  of  grass,  and  ran  along  swiftly 


68  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING   SNOW. 

with  his  head  pointing  forward  until  he  gained 
the  cover  of  a  larger  growth  of  grass,  then 
stopped  and  raised  his  head  slowly  above  it,  and 
remained  motionless,  vigilant. 

Crouched  among  the  grass  in  a  hollow  I 
watched  him,  my  glass  levelled  at  his  head. 
Five  minutes  may  have  passed  before  he  gave  a 
sharp  "  chip,"  ran  at  full  speed  down  the  bank, 
and  flew  back  to  his  feeding-ground.  Near  an- 
other pool  a  dozen  or  more  horned  larks  were 
feeding  on  the  wet  ground.  This  bird  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  I  know.  In  the  pool,  cad- 
dis-worms were  crawling  about  in  cases  made, 
not  of  grains  of  gravel,  but  of  sections  of  scour- 
ing-rush,  which  they  had  found  to  answer  all 
practical  purposes.  This  is  an  instance  of  the 
use  of  ready-made  clothing  to  oppose  to  Nature's 
usual  demand  for  custom-made  garments.  These 
caddis-worms  were  the  first  water-life  which  I 
had  seen  stirring  this  spring.  Later  in  the  day 
I  saw  "  Torn  Coddies "  or  "  mummichogs " 
swimming  in  a  ditch,  but  they  are  active  all 
winter.  Another  sign  of  spring  was  the  track 
of  a  white-footed  mouse  (hespcromys  leuco- 
pus)  found  by  the  mouse-hunter  on  his  morn- 
ing round. 

Standing  on  the  crest  of  one  of  the  dunes 
next  the  sea,  and  looking  through  the  fog  across 
lagoons  filled  with  islands  to  other  dunes  of 


THE  EQUINOCTIAL    ON  THE  DUNES.         69 

many  outlines,  varying  from  pointed  peak  or 
bold  bluff  to  long  graceful  ridge,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  retain  true  ideas  of  size  and  distance. 
The  proportions  of  pools,  islets,  bushes,  and 
cliffs  corresponded  so  closely  to  those  which 
would  have  marked  lakes,  islands,  groves,  and 
mountain  peaks  that,  for  all  the  eye  could  tell, 
Winnepesaukee  and  the  Franconia  Mountains 
were  there  in  all  their  beauty.  During  the 
forenoon  the  fog  crept  back  to  the  sea,  the  sun 
came  out,  and  the  landscape  appeared  in  new 
colors  and  proportions.  Lakes  shrank  to  pools, 
mountains  dwindled  to  sand  ridges.  The  sand 
itself  grew  pale,  and  many  of  its  most  brightly 
colored  plants  lost  their  brilliancy  as  they  dried. 
This  was  strikingly  noticeable  in  the  hudsonia 
tomentosa,  which  changed  from  rich  brown 
tones  to  sage  green  and  gray.  Ducks  were  re- 
placed by  numbers  of  redwing  blackbirds,  and 
all  day  long  the  "  flick,  flick,  flick,  flick,  flick  " 
of  a  pigeon  woodpecker  rang  from  a  tree  on  Hog 
Island. 

In  the  afternoon  we  rowed  across  the  shallow 
inlet  to  the  island,  which  is  what  geologists  call  a 
drumlin,  and  sailors  or  farmers  a  "  hog  back." 
It  is  a  gently  sloping  hill  of  gravel,  whose  longer 
axis  is  supposed  to  indicate  the  direction  of  the 
glacier's  advance  at  that  point.  The  length  of 
the  island  from  northwest  to  southeast  is  a  little 


70  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

over  half  a  mile,  and  its  height  along  its  backbone 
is  one  hundred  and  forty  feet.  A  sunny  old 
farm-house  on  the  low  land  at  the  end  of  the 
island  nearest  Coffin's  Beach  was  pointed  out 
as  the  birthplace  of  Rufus  Choate.  Beyond  it 
was  a  fair  view  of  Essex  River,  with  its  gleaming 
flats  dotted  with  clam-diggers,  Coffin's  Beach, 
Annisquam  Harbor,  and  the  shores  of  Cape 
Ann,  made  dim  and  mysterious  by  the  east  wind's 
veil  of  haze,  a  pledge  of  returning  storm.  The 
view  northward  across  Castle  Neck  and  the 
mouths  of  Ipswich  and  Rowley  rivers  to  Plum 
Island  was  not  only  beautiful,  but  interesting  by 
reason  of  the  distinctness  with  which  it  mapped 
the  dunes.  As  line  upon  line  of  white-edged 
breakers  rolled  in  upon  the  shore,  they  seemed  to 
turn  to  sand  and  continue  their  undulations 
across  Castle  Neck  to  our  inlet.  Bits  of  blue 
shone  between  these  sand  waves.  They  were 
the  mimic  lakes  of  the  caddis- worms  and  the 
Ipswich  sparrows.  Bits  of  white  were  on  the 
sands  of  the  beach  and  the  flats  along  the 
inlet.  They  were  flocks  of  gulls  feeding.  So 
still  was  the  air  that  now  and  then  the  uncanny 
whining  of  one  of  these  birds  came  up  to  us. 
Inland  the  sun  made  the  haze  golden  instead 
of  gray,  and  we  could  not  see  many  miles. 
In  Ipswich,  Hamilton,  and  Essex  many  drum- 
lins  could  be  seen,  one  of  which,  Heartbreak 


THE  EQUINOCTIAL    ON   THE  DUNES.         71 

Hill,  was  especially  conspicuous.  The  outlines 
of  these  hills  seemed  restful  and  placid.  The 
marshes  between  them  were  straw-colored,  and 
cut  into  arabesques  by  meandering  tide  rivers 
of  blue. 

The  stone  walls  on  Hog  Island  were  apparently 
being  swallowed  up  by  the  earth.  The  boul- 
ders also  seemed  to  be  sinking  below  the  surface. 
One  stone  wall  had  sunk  so  that  its  top  was 
almost  level  with  the  ground.  In  the  fields  at 
the  base  of  the  hill,  tunnels  of  the  common  field- 
mice  (arvicola  pennsylvanicus')  ran  in  every 
direction.  The  mouse-hunter,  in  order  to  prove 
beyond  a  doubt  that  these  sturdy  mice,  and 
not  moles,  were  responsible  for  the  tunnels,  dug 
one  of  them  out  of  his  cave  and  produced  him, 
struggling. 

At  sunset,  after  our  row  back  to  the  sand- 
hills, I  climbed  the  highest  dune  and  took  a 
last  look  at  the  singular  panorama  of  blue 
lagoons,  pale  yellow  ridges,  wind-cut  bluffs,  bur- 
ied trees,  and  foaming  breakers.  It  certainly 
was  a  unique  landscape,  and  one  fascinating  for 
many  reasons,  but  it  had  something  sinister  in 
it.  The  ocean  was  covered  by  a  thin  fog,  the 
east  wind  coming  from  the  waves  was  chilling, 
and  it  brought  confused  sounds  of  roaring  water 
and  shrill-voiced  gulls.  The  sands,  forever  shift- 
ing, seemed  treacherous,  the  sea  restless,  and  the 


72  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING   SNOW. 

wind  which  stirred  them  full  of  discontent. 
There  are  many  who  might  find  rest  in  the*  rest- 
lessness of  the  sea,  the  dunes,  and  the  winds. 
Perhaps  my  lack  of  sympathy  is  hereditary. 
Rather  more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago  a  father  and  son  were  fishermen  upon  these 
treacherous  coasts.  In  the  great  storm  of  Dt  - 
cember  15,  1636,  the  father  was  claimed  by  tlio 
ocean  as  its  own.  The  son  gave  up  the  sea  and 
grew  corn  by  the  ponds  of  Chebacco.  Before 
he  died  he  moved  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of 
the  ocean,  and  for  many  generations  none  of 
his  descendants  lived  within  tide-water  limits. 


THE  RENAISSANCE. 

THE  twenty-fifth  of  March  was  the  first 
day  of  the  year  which  could,  without  any 
mental  reservation,  be  called  a  spring  day. 
I  was  awakened  early  by  the  clamor  of 
English  sparrows,  the  shrill  calling  of  robins, 
the  "creaking"  of  purple  grackles,  and  the 
cawing  of  crows.  By  eight  o'clock,  with  one 
who,  like  myself,  had  arranged  to  gauge  the 
season  on  this  bright  and  beautiful  morning,  I 
was  on  my  way  behind  a  willing  horse,  speeding 
by  Mount  Auburn,  through  the  walled  fields  of 
Belmont,  past  Waverley  Oaks,  and  on  towards 
Concord,  with  Rock  Meadow  and  Beaver  Brook 
on  the  left,  and  Arlington  Heights  and  their 
cedar-crowned  ridges  on  the  right.  Every 
breath  of  fresh,  sweet,  sparkling  air  seemed  full 
of  new,  tingling  life.  Near  Payson  Park  Lodge 
a  song  sparrow  was  singing.  We  stopped  and 
listened  to  it.  Every  note  was  well  and  fully 
rendered.  The  bird  was,  like  the  day,  one  of 
Nature's  successes.  Just  beyond  the  Oaks,  near 
Beaver  Brook  Cascade,  a  flock  of  a  dozen  quail 
flew  over  us,  and  on,  northward,  at  a  rate  of 


74  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING   SNOW. 

speed  which  was  marvellous.  They  were  flying 
high  enough  to  clear  the  tops  of  the  trees.  The 
rush  of  their  wings  was  like  a  squall  passing 
through  a  pine  grove. 

As  we  drove  slowly  between  the  even  rows  of 
willows  which  make  Rock  Meadow  on  the  Con- 
cord turnpike  one  of  the  most  charming  spots 
near  Cambridge,  song  sparrows  by  threes  and 
fours  were  seen  and  heard  at  every  lull  in  the 
west  wind's  blowing.  Two  rusty  grackles  flew 
over,  alighted  in  an  elm,  sounded  their  quaint 
notes,  and  then  dropped  down  into  the  meadow. 
A  redwing  blackbird  "  ka-reed  "  from  a  treetop, 
and  more  than  a  dozen  crows  revelled  in  loud 
cawing,  sturdy  flying,  or  rapid  walking  over  the 
lowlands.  Over  the  hills  and  far  away  we  drove 
in  the  bright  sunshine,  until,  reaching  at  last  the 
secluded  spot  we  had  chosen  for  our  goal,  we 
3et  out  through  a  narrow,  walled  lane  for  the 
woods. 

A  muskrat,  sunning  himself  on  a  stone,  see- 
ing us,  hurled  himself  across  the  lane  into  and 
through  a  puddle,  showering  spray  in  every 
direction,  and  out  of  sight  under  a  stone  wall 
beyond.  A  single  junco,  the  first  I  had  seen 
this  year,  rose  from  a  ploughed  field,  flashed  his 
white  tail  feathers,  and  turned  his  cowled  head 
to  watch  us.  High  over  a  pine-crowned  hill  a 
red-shouldered  hawk  was  sailing  in  small  circles, 


THE  RENAISSANCE.  75 

and  with  rather  nervous  flight.  Now  and  then 
its  discordant  mewing  came  to  our  ears  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind. 

In  the  orchards  bluebirds  were  singing.  We 
heard  at  least  ten.  They  seemed  to  say,  "Cher- 
u-it,  cher-u-it"  'and  to  mean  by  it  something 
very  pure  and  endearing.  The  lane  led  into 
a  wooded  meadow,  crossed  by  several  brooks, 
which  we  examined  with  intei'est  for  signs  of 
water  life.  Within  half  a  mile  we  found  one 
painted  turtle  (chrysemys  picta)  and  eighteen 
speckled  tortoises  (nanemys  guttatus).  Some 
seemed  rather  feeble,  though  full  of  enjoyment 
of  the  warm  sunshine.  One  of  the  number 
had  come  to  an  early,  sad,  and  to  us  mysterious 
end.  We  found  his  empty  shell  picked  clean 
of  all  soft  portions  except  the  tail  and  a  bit  of 
skin  which  adhered  to  it.  The  shell  was  un- 
scarred.  Neither  of  us  could  imagine  what 
beast  or  bird  could  have  slain  him.  The 
crime  had  been  committed  only  a  few  hours 
before,  for  the  shell  was  still  moist.  In  the 
mud  on  the  side  of  the  brook  we  found  an 
unfamiliar  track.  Two  five-clawed  feet,  making 
a  track  as  broad  as  the  length  of  the  first  joint 
of  a  man's  thumb,  had  been  planted  side  by 
side,  while  several  inches  in  front  of  them  two 
smaller  feet  had  made  two  prints,  one  of  which 
was  exactly  in  front  of  the  other.  My  friend 


76  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

thought  the  prints  might  be  those  of  a  young 
otter.  We  also  found  where  a  muskrat  had 
stepped  upon  the  mud,  placing  his  hind  feet 
so  closely  together  as  to  make  one  broad  print, 
dragging  meanwhile  his  tail  in  such  a  way  as 
to  leave  an  odd  groove  in  the  mud.  Flying 
about  in  this  meadow  and  the  higher  woods 
adjoining  it  were  two  kinds  of  butterflies  and 
a  beautiful  moth.  I  also  found  a  partially  de- 
veloped locust. 

While  watching  and  admiring  these  gay  sur- 
vivors of  the  winter,  we  heard  a  brown  creeper 
sing.  It  was  a  rare  treat.  The  song  is  singu- 
larly strong,  full  of  meaning  and  charm,  espe- 
cially when  the  size  of  its  tiny  performer  is 
remembered.  A  grouse,  two  tree  sparrows,  and  a 
downy  woodpecker  were  added  to  our  list  towards 
the  middle  of  the  day,  and  early  in  the  after- 
noon two  chickadees,  seemingly  mated,  were 
greatly  exercised  over  my  friend's  excellent 
mimicry  of  the  "  phoebe  note  "  of  the  male  chick- 
adee. The  male  answered  with  much  vigor,  and 
within  less  than  three  feet  of  the  mimic's  face. 
In  making  this  sweet  ventriloqual  note,  the  bird 
throws  its  head  back  and  opens  its  beak,  quite  in 
the  manner  of  a  Christmas-card  bird.  The  only 
other  bird  song  which  we  heard  was  that  of  the 
flicker  calling  energetically  to  his  mate. 

The  event  of  the  day  was  the  sight  of  a  barred 


THE  RENAISSANCE.  77 

owl,  which  we  startled  into  flight  in  the  depths 
of  a  pine  grove  where  snowdrifts  still  lingered. 
Although  close  watch  was  kept  for  frogs  or  pip- 
ing hylas,  none  were  seen  or  heard.  Our  sur- 
prise was  great,  however,  to  see  a  large  wood- 
chuck  run  clumsily  through  an  oak  grove,  and 
turn  to  watch  us  from  the  mouth  of  his  hole. 
He  was  very  thin,  and  probably  correspondingly 
hungry  after  his  long  winter  nap.  We  saw  two 
gray  squirrels,  but  no  red  squirrels  or  chipmunks. 
At  the  base  of  a  boulder,  in  a  moist  wood,  lay 
a  garter  snake.  I  caught  him,  and  found  his 
forked  tongue,  bright,  defiant  eyes,  and  tightly 
entwining  folds  all  in  the  best  possible  working 
order.  Near  the  end  of  our  walk  we  found  a 
grass-grown  ants'  nest,  formed  of  light  soil  piled 
into  a  conical  heap  a  foot  and  a  half  high.  Not 
thinking  it  possible  that  the  hill  was  tenanted,  I 
knocked  away  part  of  its  top.  Instantly,  en- 
raged red  ants  came  from  the  hidden  chambers 
of  their  fortress,  and  in  a  sluggish  way  sought 
the  intruder.  I  replaced  the  earth  and  mentally 
begged  the  ants'  pardon. 

It  was  evening  when  we  reentered  Cambridge 
streets,  well  pleased  with  having  seen  eighteen 
kinds  of  birds,  three  kinds  of  mammals,  two 
species  of  turtles,  one  snake,  three  species  of 
butterflies  or  moths,  and  at  least  five  other  kinds 
of  insects. 


THE  VESPER  SONG  OF  THE  WOODCOCK. 

EASTER  Ipunday  fell  this  year  on  March  29th, 
and  the  joyous  voices  of  white-robed  choir  boys 
made  for  the  cities  almost  as  sweet  and  praisef ul 
music  as  the  children  of  the  woods  were  making 
in  Nature's  own  sanctuaries.  On  the  afternoon 
of  the  day  before  Easter,  I  went  to  the  ravine 
between  Arlington  and  Lexington  where  hepa- 
tica  grows.  Walking  from  Arlington  over  the 
ridges  near  One  Pine  Hill,  I  heard  frogs  for  the 
first  time  this  year.  Two  kinds  were  singing, 
the  shrill-voiced  piping  hylas  (hyla  Piclcer- 
ingii)  and  the  wood  frogs  (rana  sylvaticcf). 
The  latter  at  this  season  make  a  sound  which 
recalls  the  thrumming  of  loosely  strung  banjo 
strings.  The  combined  notes  formed  an  effect- 
ive background  of  sound  to  the  rollicsome  sing- 
ing of  song  sparrows,  tree  sparrows,  and  red- 
winged  blackbirds,  and  the  love-music  of  the 
mated  bluebirds. 

Wishing  to  capture  a  wood  frog  and  make 
sure  of  his  identit}r,  I  remained  for  many  min- 
utes motionless  on  a  stone  in  the  middle  of  a 
shallow  pool  in  the  swamp.  On  my  approach 


THE  VESPER  SONG   OF  THE  WOODCOCK.   79 

every  frog  had  gone  to  the  bottom  and  hidden 
in  the  leaves  and  mud.  The  pool  was  lined 
with  many  layers  of  brown  leaves,  most  of  which 
preserved  their  outlines  and  told  their  names. 
Across  them  twigs  and  branches  had  fallen,  and 
bits  of  lichen  and  moss  had  sunk  there,  too. 
Many  specks  were  floating  in  the  water.  They 
seemed  to  move,  some  one  way,  some  another. 
They  were  alive.  Bending  closer  over  the 
water,  I  watched  them  attentively.  Some  moved 
quite  evenly,  others  hitched  across  the  pool  by  a 
series  of  jerky  advances.  There  were  lively  red 
ones  among  them,  contrasting  with  the  darker, 
duller  ones.  Some  were  so  minute  that  they 
could  be  seen  only  as  a  ray 'of  light  pierced  the 
pool.  As  minutes  passed  and  no  frog  moved,  I 
grew  weary  and  rose.  Instantly  a  frog  kicked 
among  the  leaves  and  mud,  betraying  by  motion 
what  his  color  had  protected.  A  second  later  I 
had  him,  feebly  squirming  in  my  pocket. 

North  of  One  Pine  Hill  a  flock  of  thirty  or 
more  birds  were  feeding  in  a  stubble  field. 
They  were  j  uncos  and  tree  sparrows,  in  about 
equal  numbers.  The  juncos  did  not  say  where 
they  had  been  all  winter.  Only  just  out  of  my 
sight,  perhaps,  all  the  time.  At  five  o'clock  the 
ravine  was  reached.  It  was  full  of  shadows, 
and  the  raw  east  wind  had  piled  masses  of  cloud 
across  the  sky,  making  the  sun's  light  pale  and 


80  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

uncertain.  At  the  masthead  of  a  leafless  red 
maple  sat  a  gray  squirrel,  "  budding."  Foolish 
thing,  he  sat  still,  thinking  himself  safe,  while 
he  was  really  the  most  conspicuous  object  in  the 
ravine.  Pounding  upon  the  tree  had  no  effect 
on  him.  Search  for  hepaticas  revealed  no 
flowers,  and  I  did  not  find  any  until  a  trip  to 
the  Middlesex  Fells  on  April  5th.  The  skunk- 
cabbage  flowers  were  losing  their  beauty,  yet  the 
snow  was  still  abundant  in  dark  corners  in  the 
woods.  Ten  minutes  in  the  chilly  ravine  was 
enough.  A  grouse  startled  me  with  her  noisy 
flight  as  I  left  the  gloom.  From  every  hilltop 
crows  were  calling  lustily.  They  were  restless, 
and  seemed  moved  by  a  common  impulse. 
Reaching  a  high  ledge,  I  watched  them.  About 
thirty  were  in  sight  in  the  tops  of  tall  pines. 
Gradually  they  drew  together  on  the  next  ridge 
to  the  north,  about  half  a  mile  from  me.  One 
by  one  they  dropped  down  into  the  woods  out 
of  sight.  At  last  but  two  remained,  still  cawing. 
Then  they  became  silent,  and  finally  they  also 
sank  beneath  the  surface  of  the  woods,  and 
nothing  more  was  heard  of  them.  They  were 
like  sparks  in  the  ashes,  going  out  one  by  one. 
At  this  moment  the  sun,  which  had  been  sinking 
behind  stormy-looking  rags  of  clouds,  disap- 
peared behind  the  rounded  shoulder  of  Wachu- 
sett.  Then  the  sky  dressed  itself  in  gay  colors, 


THE  VESPER  SOXU  OF  THE  WOODCOCK.  81 

and  the  farewell  to  the  day  was  full  of  splendor. 
Wachusett,  distant  and  pale  blue,  was  flanked 
by  two  of  the  Lexington  ridges  heavily  grown 
with  pines.  The  mountain  and  its  two  dark 
guardians  stood  out  sharply  against  a  background 
of  the  richest  orange,  deepening  at  the  horizon 
to  red.  Above  the  mountain  the  sky  was  clear 
yellow  until  it  reached  a  bank  of  slaty -blue 
cloud.  The  sunlight  piercing  this  cloud  bank 
flecked  it  with  rose  color,  while  drifting  bits  of 
cloud  falling  against  the  orange  became  bright 
like  gold.  Thanks  to  this  gorgeous  sunset,  I 
lingered  on  the  hill  until  darkness  pervaded  the 
woods.  Then  I  ran  down  through  a  grove  of 
oaks  and  came  out  in  a  damp  meadow  com- 
pletely surrounded  by  tall  trees.  The  last  song 
sparrow  was  singing  good  night.  Across  the 
west  only  a  single  band  of  orange  light  remained. 
In  the  zenith  stars  were  beginning  to  shine.  A 
strange  cry  came  from  the  meadow  grass.  It 
recalled  the  night  hawk's  squawk,  softened  by 
distance.  Again  and  again  it  came :  "  N'yah," 
then  a  pause,  then  "  n'yah "  again,  and  so  on, 
until  this  had  been  uttered  a  dozen  times.  I 
drew  nearer  the  spot  from  which  this  odd  call 
came.  Perhaps  it  was  a  frog  of  some  kind  ;  per- 
haps a  bird  of  the  swarnp.  The  sound  ceased, 
but  the  next  moment  there  seemed  to  be  a  musi- 
cal ringing  in  my  ears  which  rapidly  grew  more 


82  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

distinct,  and  then  came  clearly  from  the  upper 
air,  but  from  a  point  swiftly  changing,  appar- 
ently revolving.  I  fixed  my  mind  intently 
upon  the  sound.  It  was  a  series  of  single  musi- 
cal notes  uttered  rapidly  by  some  creature  fly- 
ing swiftly  in  an  immense  circle  high  over  the 
meadow.  It  seemed  as  though  the  sky  were  a 
vast  vaulted  whispering  gallery  under  whose 
dark  blue  dome  a  singing  reed  was  being  whirled 
round  and  round,  dropping  sweet  bits  of  sound 
as  it  sped  through  the  air.  As  I  listened  breath- 
lessly, this  sound  was  smoothly  changed  into 
another.  The  creature  was  descending :  its 
notes  fell  more  slowly  but  more  distinctly  ;  they 
were  sweeter,  rounder,  more  liquid.  They  came 
down,  down,  and  then  ceased,  quenched  in  the 
damp  grass.  Almost  at  once,  however,  the 
"  n'yah  "  began  again  at  the  same  point  in  the 
meadow  where  it  had  been  made  before.  This 
entire  performance  was  repeated  several  times. 
The  last  time  the  nasal  call  was  given  twenty- 
four  times  and  the  aerial  part  was  omitted. 
The  performer  was  satisfied  for  the  night.  As 
he  closed,  the  bells  in  Arlington  struck  seven. 

Those  who  know  the  plump  and  meditative 
woodcock,  gazing  by  the  hour  together  down  the 
line  of  his  bill  into  black  mud,  will  wonder  with 
me  that  his  courtship  can  arouse  him  to  such 
airy  fairy  efforts,  and  at  so  romantic  an  hour. 


A   TRIP  TO  HIGHLAND  LIGHT. 

THE  morning  of  the  first  of  April  dawned 
like  an  Easter  Sunday.  The  sky  was  clear,  the 
sun  warm,  the  air  soft  and  full  of  the  smell 
of  spring.  Taking  the  nine  o'clock  train  from 
the  Old  Colony  Station  we  rolled  swiftly  over 
the  Quincy-Braintree  levels  with  their  wander- 
ing brooks  and  flooded  swamps,  down  towards 
the  sandy  Cape  country.  At  Bridgewater  the 
train  turned  toward  the  east,  and  by  eleven  we 
passed  the  head  of  Buzzard's  Bay,  where  the 
Cape  Cod  Canal  is  some  day  to  be  cut  through, 
and  entered  upon  the  territory  of  the  real  Cape. 
The  railway  follows  the  inner  curve  of  the 
Cape,  the  rounded  cheek  of  Cape  Cod  Bay.  At 
Sandwich,  where  we  saw  the  melancholy  and 
deserted  buildings  of  the  once  prosperous  glass 
works,  we  began  to  gain  glimpses  of  dark  blue 
water,  with  pale  sand  hills  lining  its  shores. 

As  we  passed  Barnstable  and  Yarmouth  these 
momentary  off-looks  to  the  bay  became  more 
frequent.  Between  them,  as  we  hurried  through 
patches  of  low  woods,  we  surprised  anglers  mak- 
ing the  first  cast  of  the  newly  opened  season  in 


84  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

the  sluggish  brooks  or  small  ponds  which  make 
this  region  famous  for  its  trout.  Brewster, 
Orleans,  Eastham,  and  Wellfleet  were  traversed 
one  by  one,  the  train  hitching  to  the  left  mile  by 
mile  until  from  pointing  southeast  it  pointed  east, 
then  northeast,  and  finally  north.  We  passed 
cranberry  bogs  by  dozens  ;  stunted  pine  forests 
scorched  by  the  railway  fires ;  windmills  — 
some  old  and  full  of  Dutch  dignity,  many  new 
and  bristling  with  Yankee  ingenuity ;  flocks  of 
blackbirds  on  the  flat  hay-fields ;  clouds  of  dry 
sand  rising  from  the  track ;  views  across  the 
blue  bay  of  blue  skies  and  bluer  shores  reaching 
up  to  the  mainland  westward  and  northward. 

By  a  little  after  midday  our  eyes  had  spanned 
the  placid  inner  waters  of  the  bay  and  seen  the 
long  curving  shore  of  Truro  and  Provincetown, 
its  white  hills  and  low  cliffs  flashing  almost  like 
chalk  in  the  strong  sunlight.  Passing  Well- 
fleet,  —  a  large  and  busy-looking  village,  —  we 
soon  gained  a  narrower  part  of  the  Cape  and 
began  to  point  northwest  instead  of  north, 
seeing  sand-hills  first  on  one  side,  then  on 
the  other.  Truro  is  a  long  township,  a  block 
set  on  end  in  this  pile  of  Cape  republics. 
First  came  South  Truro,  then  Truro,  then  a 
mile  or  two  of  bluffs  along  the  bay  shore  with 
swift  visions  of  feeding  herring  gulls  on  the  flats, 
and  forests  of  poles  rising  from  the  blue  water, 


A   TRIP   TO  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  85 

marking  the  fish  traps  of  the  deluded  fishermen 
whose  mackerel  fleet  has  been  swept  from  the 
sea  by  this  sunken  fleet  of  seine  poles.  Finally, 
North  Truro  was  gained,  four  hours  from  Boston, 
and  114  miles  by  schedule.  The  bay  was  at  our 
feet,  with  Barnstable,  Plymouth,  and  Norfolk 
shores  for  its  setting.  There  was  the  train  run- 
ning away  to  Provincetown  between  white  sand 
walls,  pointing  toward  Boston,  yet  increasing  its 
sand  trail  from  it.  Eastward  there  was  a  straight 
white  road  leading  over  low  sand  ridges  and  broad 
sand  levels  up  to  a  tall  white  lighthouse  a  mile 
and  a  half  away.  It  was  Highland  Light,  hold- 
ing its  great  lenses  high  above  the  Atlantic, 
and  casting  its  message  of  warning  or  welcome 
over  many  a  wide  league  of  restless  water.  The 
process  of  hauling  a  well-loaded  carryall  through 
even  a  short  mile  and  a  half  of  deep  sand  is 
painful  for  horse  and  trying  to  half-starved 
traveller.  Both  rejoice  when  such  a  ride  is  over. 
At  three  o'clock  we  were  standing  at  the  foot 
of  Highland  Light,  gazing  on  the  novel  land- 
scape which  surrounds  it.  Toward  the  east  the 
limitless  ocean  filled  the  eye.  Half  a  dozen 
sails  were  in  sight,  but  no  covey  of  mackerel- 
men  dotted  the  sea  as  in  the  days  of  Thoreau. 
The  spot  where  we  were  standing  was  the  storm- 
eaten  margin  of  a  cliff  about  150  feet  in  height. 
The  cliff  is  not  rock,  but  sand  and  clay  sur- 


86  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

mounted  by  a  tough  layer  of  sod.  As  years 
roll  by  the  cliff  is  eroded,  a  little  by  the  sea, 
more  by  the  ceaseless  winds  and  frequent  falling 
rains.  The  ruins  of  the  cliffs  lie  at  their  feet. 
First  masses  of  clay  formed  into  mimic  mountain 
spurs  and  buttress  ridges,  then  heaps  of  white 
sand  covered  with  coarse  grass,  finally,  next  the 
sea,  the  broad  steep  beach  which  looks  as  hard 
as  marble,  but  when  tested  offers  only  soft  and 
uncertain  support  to  the  foot.  The  clay  debris 
is  full  of  odd  effects  of  color.  White,  gray,  yel- 
low, orange,  lead  color,  and  black,  burning  in 
sunlight  or  crossed  by  heavy  shadows,  blend  into 
combinations  worthy  of  the  Yellowstone  region. 
On  the  upper  edge  of  the  cliffs  close  to  the  light- 
house a  colony  of  bank  swallows  have  lived 
through  many  generations  of  both  men  and  birds. 
Their  burrows  aid  the  work  of  erosion.  Look- 
ing either  up  or  down  the  Atlantic  shore  the 
cliffs  could  be  seen  extending  in  uneven  array 
above  the  beach.  Southward  they  were  broken 
in  places  where  narrow  valleys  ran  inland, 
reaching  sometimes  nearly  across  the  Cape. 
Almost  the  whole  of  Truro  south  of  the  light- 
house is  composed  of  sandhills  well  sodded  or 
grown  with  stunted  pitch-pines  or  oaks.  The 
intervening  valleys  or  interrupted  hollows  some- 
times contain  tide  rivers,  but  are  more  fre- 
quently dry.  The  hills  are  low,  but  as  their 


A  TRIP  TO  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  87 

pigmy  forests  have  the  general  effect  of  large 
trees,  the  observer  is  constantly  deceived  as  to 
proportions  and  distances.  Many  times  during 
my  stay  I  was  startled  to  see  an  apparently 
gigantic  man  or  colossal  quadruped  come  into 
view  upon  the  brow  of  a  hill  which  my  eyes  had 
told  me  was  a  mile  or  two  distant.  In  driving 
or  walking,  spaces  were  covered  so  much  more 
quickly  than  sight  alone  led  me  to  expect,  that  I 
felt  as  though  my  legs  must  be  the  owners  of 
the  seven-league  boots  of  old.  Looking  west- 
ward from  the  lighthouse,  the  charm  of  the 
view  was  not  in  the  foreground  of  undulating 
pasture  thickly  grown  with  reindeer  moss  and 
tussocks  of  brown  hudsonia,  but  in  the  dis- 
tance. Cape  Cod  Bay  has  that  lovely  con- 
tour, that  great  curve  of  sand  enclosing  a  mass 
of  placid  blue  water,  which  makes  a  small  bay 
a  singularly  attractive  part  of  a  sea  picture. 
From  Highland  Light  that  day  the  bay  seemed 
full  of  repose,  ignorant  of  storm. 

Northward  the  shores  of  ocean  and  bay  curved 
away  from  the  east  as  though  the  storm  winds  had 
bent  the  end  of  the  Cape  round  into  the  bay. 
Inside  of  this  bent  end  lay  Provincetown,  its 
many  windows  flashing  back  the  sunlight,  and 
its  several  spires  standing  out  clearly  against  the 
blue  background.  Between  Provincetown  and 
the  ocean  are  dunes,  not  grass  and  lichen-grown 


88  LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

hills,  but  dunes  like  those  at  Ipswich  beach, 
shifting,  treacherous,  menacing.  The  sunlight 
lay  upon  them  as  upon  snow  banks. 

Taking  a  sturdy  Cape  horse,  unterrified  by 
sandy  roads  or  cross-country  jaunts,  we  set  out 
by  a  trail  back  of  the  cliffs  for  the  picturesque 
country  between  Highland  Light  and  Province- 
town.  In  a  hollow  behind  the  cliffs  lay  a  life- 
saving  station  with  its  chain  of  telephone  poles 
running  from  it  both  up  and  down  the  coast,  and 
its  sentry  box  perched  upon  the  crest  of  the 
sandhill.  From  a  dry  field  near  it  an  Ipswich 
sparrow  rose,  flew  a  couple  of  rods,  dropped 
beside  a  bunch  of  hudsonia,  and  then  ran 
swiftly  away  behind  its  cover.  Presently  its 
whitish  head  appeared  amid  the  grass  at  a  dis- 
tance and  remained  motionless  but  watchful. 
Our  trail  ascended  a  slope  and  led  into  a  forest 
of  pigmy  pitch-pines.  They  were  about  six 
feet  high  on  an  average,  yet  were  said  to  be 
twenty  years  old.  A  flock  of  forty  or  fifty  gold- 
finches sang  and  fed  among  them.  Descending 
into  a  broad,  level  meadow  lying  just  inside  the 
cliffs,  which,  by  this  time,  were  becoming  more 
dunes  than  cliffs,  we  found  that  a  fire  started 
intentionally  among  the  coarse  grass  of  the 
meadow  had  spread  to  the  low  pines  and  bushes 
011  the  sides  of  the  hills.  As  the  wind  was 
east  the  smoke  blew  into  and  across  the  meadow, 


A  TRIP   TO  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  89 

obscuring  the  view  of  the  dunes  in  front  of  us.  No 
effort  of  mind  or  eyesight  could  make  those  dunes 
appear  like  anything  smaller  than  mountains  two 
thousand  feet  or  more  in  height,  and  seven  or  eight 
miles  distant.  Even  when  some  men  appeared 
upon  the  nearer  ridges  and  fought  the  fire,  it 
was  easier  to  imagine  them  giants  than  to  reduce 
the  dunes  to  their  proper  proportions. 

This  meadow  was  alive  with  birds.  Meadow 
larks,  which  are  not  larks  but  starlings,  sang 
their  sweet  lament  from  every  acre.  With  them 
were  handsome  redwing  blackbirds,  more  noisy 
but  less  shy.  The  starlings  rose  at  long  dis- 
tances and,  spreading  their  tails  into  white-edged 
fans,  let  their  wings  quiver  and  then  sailed 
away,  often  over  a  ridge  and  out  of  sight.  In 
giving  his  plaintive  song  the  starling  stops  feed- 
ing, raises  his  head  above  the  grass  and  shows 
to  perfection  his  yellow  breast  and  its  bold 
black  crescent.  Song  sparrows  were  on  every 
side,  and  crows  and  gulls  rose  and  fell  behind 
the  sandhills,  where  they  were  probably  in  sole 
possession  of  the  ocean's  edge  with  its  wealth  of 
seaweed  and  sea  offal. 

After  winding  through  more  than  a  mile  of 
meadow  the  road  bent  sharply  to  the  left  and 
passed  through  a  crooked  gap  in  the  hills  into 
a  sandy  amphitheatre  several  acres  in  extent. 
Here,  surrounded  by  high  grass-clad  slopes,  was 


90  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

a  picture  of  rural  security  and  comfort.  An  old- 
fashioiied  farmhouse,  in  the  midst  of  drooping 
willows,  barns,  sheds,  cattle-yards,  and  fruit  trees, 
stood  near  the  sunny  end  of  the  hollow.  At  the 
eastern  end  was  a  large  pool,  thickly  grown  with 
stiff,  interlacing  bushes  which  rose  from  the  water 
in  the  manner  of  the  button-ball  bushes.  Around 
the  farm  buildings  were  cows,  a  bull  with  a  large 
ring  in  his  nose,  hens,  ducks,  and  turkeys. 
Around  the  pool  were  song  sparrows,  tree  spar- 
rows, yellow-rumped  warblers,  crow  blackbirds, 
and  redwings.  The  air  was  lull  of  their  music 
and  the  clamor  of  the  barnyard.  The  spot 
gave  one  the  feeling  that  it  must  have  a  history. 
Indians,  smugglers,  pirates,  patriot  conspirators, 
exiled  regicides,  might  one  or  all  have  made  this 
nook  a  place  of  refuge.  The  oasis  in  the  desert 
is  seen  from  afar ;  this  spot  of  life  was  hidden 
in  the  bosom  of  the  sandhills. 

While  I  was  thinking  thus  the  heavens  sud- 
denly gave  out  an  unearthly  sound  ;  a  drove  of 
celestial  jackasses,  all  braying  at  once,  seemed 
coming  afar  from  the  sun's  pastures.  Shading 
my  eyes,  I  discovered  a  multitude  of  dark  specks 
connected  like  a  chain,  and  advancing  across  the 
sky  with  a  swaying,  undulatory  motion.  They 
were  wild  geese  flying  a  little  north  of  east,  and 
within  three  hundred  feet  of  the  ground.  The 
farmer's  dog  barked  vehemently  at  them.  A 


A   TRIP   TO  HIGHLAND   LIGHT.  91 

shot  rang  out  from  behind  the  sandhills.  The 
line  of  honking  migrants  wavered,  but  none 
fell.  Just  as  they  disappeared  a  second  flock 
came  within  view  and  hearing  in  the  west,  and 
passed  over  us  in  the  invisible  wake  left  by  the 
first.  They  seemed  to  be  searching  for  a  place 
to  rest.  The  two  flocks  contained  at  least 
ninety-five  birds.  Walking  round  the  little 
bush-grown  pond  we  listened  entranced  to  the 
medley  music  of  the  tree  sparrows  and  their 
companions.  The  yellow-rumped  warblers  were 
probably  birds  which  had  wintered  on  the  Cape, 
just  as  some  others  have  spent  this  winter  in 
Arlington,  not  far  from  Mystic  Ponds. 

The  farmer  asked  us  to  enter  his  cottage  and 
see  his  collection  of  Indian  stone  relics  picked 
up  by  him  on  the  slopes  and  fields  above  the 
pool.  We  did  so  and  found  that  he  had  gathered 
several  hundred  arrow  and  spear  heads,  cutting 
tools,  hammers,  bits  of  wampum  and  what  he 
called  fish-net  sinkers.  He  took  us  to  the  field 
west  of  the  pond  and  home  acre,  and  bade  us 
search  with  him  for  more  relics.  At  the  end 
of  twenty  minutes  he  had  aided  us  in  finding 
two  or  three  arrowheads,  several  fragments  show- 
ing clear  indications  of  having  been  chipped, 
and  one  sinker.  In  this  field  a  flock  of  thirty  or 
forty  horned  larks  were  feeding ;  they  rose  and 
flew,  circled  and  came  down  again  within  fifty 


92  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING   SNOW. 

yards  of  us.  I,  having  failed  to  find  even  a 
broken  arrowhead,  felt  inclined  to  suspect  the 
larks  of  hiding  them  from  me,  as  they  tripped 
about  over  the  ploughed  land. 

Resuming  our  places  in  the  carryall,  we  drove 
to  the  edge  of  a  sand  slope  overlooking  the  broad 
meadow  between  us  and  Provincetown  Harbor. 

The  sunset  hour  was  near  and  the  bay  flashed 
fire  from  a  million  waves.  Provincetown,  only 
a  few  miles  away,  looked  warm  and  cosy  on  its 
neutral  ground  between  pale  dunes  and  blue 
waters.  It  would  seem  less  snug  in  an  easterly 
gale  in  mid-winter.  A  broad  placid  sheet  of 
fresh  water  lay  between  the  sandhills  and  the 
bay  shore.  It  is  called  the  Eel-pond.  It  made  a 
fair  mirror  for  sunset  lights. 

We  drove  home  over  the  moors,  as  I  felt  like 
calling  the  wastes  of  undulating  lichen-grown  sand 
which  formed  the  middle  of  the  Cape  at  this  point. 
The  horse  sped  along  regardless  of  roads,  but 
keeping  a  sharp  watch  for  the  numerous  holes 
dug  in  the  sand  by  recent  generations  of  hunters, 
who  half  bury  themselves  on  this  plateau  at 
the  fortunate  times  when  the  golden  plover  are 
passing  on  their  hemispherical  migration.  The 
horse's  feet  crunched  the  reindeer  moss,  and 
knocked  dust  from  the  hudsonia  or  poverty 
grass,  and  pollen  from  the  flowers  of  the  corema. 
Presently  we  found  in  the  tableland  two  deep 


A  TRIP  TO  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  93 

bowl-shape J  hollows  where  twin  icebergs  had 
grounded  side  by  side  in  the  great  ice  age  and 
met  their  melting  death.  Upon  the  narrovy  ridge 
between  these  "  sink-holes  "  was  a  grave.  Years 
ago  a  fisherman  died  of  smallpox,  and  his  body 
was  placed  there.  A  stranger  burial  spot  one 
seldom  sees.  A  mile  further  on  we  passed  a 
lonely  poplar  tree  which  marks  —  not  a  man's 
grave,  but  the  grave  of  a  home.  All  trace  of 
the  house  has  gone,  but  mossgrown  roads,  a  few 
broken  bricks  and  the  sentinel  tree  bear  passing 
witness  to  a  forgotten  fireside  ;  a  spot  from  which 
a  fisherman  went  out  day  by  day,  and  where  an 
anxious  heart  beat  for  him  in  storms  and  per- 
haps mourned  for  him  at  last  when  his  boat  went 
down  in  the  black  waters  off  Race  Point.  Not 
far  from  this  forsaken  acre  is  a  sink-hole  of  un- 
usual depth.  The  local  name  for  it  is  full  of 
color,  —  it  is  "  Hell's  Bottom."  In  spite  of  this 
name  the  pines  which  line  the  slopes  of  the  hol- 
low flourish  and  are  tall,  and  the  pool  of  sweet 
water  at  its  centre  is  a  favorite  resort  for  birds, 
the  holy  crossbill  included.  Passing  it,  we  saw 
above  pygmy  pines  the  pallid  gleam  of  the  High- 
land Light, struggling  with  the  glow  of  sunset. 
A  wide  valley  seemed  to  separate  us  from,  the 
light,  and  the  white  tower  seemed  three  hun- 
dred feet  or  more  in  height,  but  our  Pegasus 
drew  us  over  the  valley  in  five  minutes,  and  the 
light  shrank  to  its  proper  size  as  we  drew  near. 


94  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

About  eight  o'clock  I  was  seated  on  the  iron 
steps  at  the  foot  of  the  great  kerosene  torch 
which,  stands  inside  the  crumpled  lenses  of  the 
Highland  light.  The  lamp  roared  in  its  giant 
chimney.  Prismatic  colors  swam  through  the 
lenses.  The  keepers  told  strange  stories  of 
storms,  freaks  of  lightning,  the  trembling  of  their 
white  tower  in  the  gales,  and  the  fate  of  birds 
which  hurled  themselves  against  the  heavy  glass 
of  the  outer  windows  of  the  tower.  The  base  of 
the  lantern  and  many  parts  of  the  interior  and 
exterior  of  the  lighthouse  are  scarred  by  light- 
ning. Once  three  ducks  struck  and  shivered 
into  splinters  one  of  the  thick  panes  of  glass  in 
the  tower  and  fell  dead  and  mangled  at  the  foot 
of  the  lantern.  The  keeper  said  the  sound  of 
their  striking  was  like  the  report  of  a  gun.  Out- 
side those  windows,  flashing  with  light,  all  seemed 
intense  darkness,  —  a  gloom  filled  perhaps  with 
fluttering  birds  or  the  mingled  thoughts  of  those 
upon  the  ocean  who  watched  from  afar  the  great 
white  light  of  the  Truro  sands. 

At  sunrise  on  the  morning  of  the  second  of 
April,  I  stood  shivering  in  the  chilly  air,  under 
the  lee  of  a  wrecked  windmill  not  far  from  the 
lighthouse.  The  windmill  has  lost  its  wings, 
and  storms  have  beaten  holes  in  its  sides.  Half 
buried  in  the  sand  and  sod  lies  one  of  its  grooved 
mill-stones.  Half  of  the  other  forms  the  front 


A  TRIP  TO  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  95 

doorstep  of  a  house  near  by.  The  mill  was  a 
kind  giant  in  its  time,  but  being  too  big  to  be 
set  up  in  a  bric-a-brac  shop  in  town  like  its  fussy, 
fairy  neighbor  the  farmer's  flax  wheel,  it  is 
doomed  to  mingle  with  the  shifting  sand  and  be 
whirled  away  by  the  winds  it  once  made  labor. 

The  sun  had  come  up  clear  from  the  ocean. 
The  east  wind  had  an  edge  both  keen  and  cold. 
Provincetown  lay  white  and  sparkling  in  the 
barb  of  the  Cape.  Song  sparrows,  robins,  and 
meadow  larks  sang  joyously.  A  wicked  shrike 
sat  on  a  stone  on  the  hillside  and  poured  out  a 
jangling  mixture  of  bluebird  and  brown  thrush 
notes  while  it  watched  for  victims  from  among 
the  song  sparrows.  He  never  will  sing  his  siren 
song  to  another  sunrise.  Through  the  pine  woods, 
where  skunk  tracks  dotted  the  sand  patches, 
and  down  through  a  hollow  to  the  beach  we 
strolled  before  breakfast.  Although  the  hollow 
was  a  deep  one,  we  had  to  slide  down  fifty  feet. 
of  soft  cliff  face  before  reaching  the  grassy 
upper  beach,  which  in  turn  was  several  feet 
above  the  tide-washed  sands.  The  beach  is  very 
soft,  and  walking  upon  it  is  laborious.  The 
cliffs  are  not  as  picturesque  from  below  as  from 
above,  and  they  reflect  the  sunlight  disagreeably 
in  early  morning.  A  dead  skate,  the  half  feath- 
ered skeleton  of  a  kittiwake  gull,  and  a  ripe  ba- 
nana constituted  nearly  the  whole  of  the  objects 


96  LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

of  interest  on  the  shore.  The  banana  had  a  re- 
markably rich  flavor,  thanks  perhaps  to  its  sea 
bath.  Twenty  crows  retreated  down  the  beach 
ahead  of  us.  They  live  well  and  grow  fat  on  the 
harvest  of  death  cast  up  by  the  waves.  We  left 
the  shore  at  the  life-saving  station  where  mortar 
drill  had  just  been  performed.  A  man  on  a 
mast  set  in  the  sand  has  the  life  line  fired  to 
him,  he  hauls  out  the  breeches-buoy,  and  an  im- 
aginary shipwrecked  crew  is  sent  ashore  across 
imaginary  breakers.  The  station  was  as  neat, 
clean  and  shining  as  a  flagship,  and  more  com- 
fortable by  far  than  most  New  England  farm- 
houses. 

Later  in  the  forenoon  we  drove  for  three 
hours  through  Truro  and  South  Truro,  seeing 
many  quaint  cottages  ;  dwarf  apple  orchards  re- 
minding me  of  Thoreau's  description  of  them  ; 
a  tide  river  in  which  a  man  was  prodding  at 
random  for  eels  and  occasionally  bringing  one 
out  squirming  on  his  trident ;  thousands  of  pitch- 
pine  trees  planted  by  hand  in  rows ;  a  sunny 
hillside  covered  with  oaks,  checkerberry  plants 
and  arbutus,  the  latter  bearing  the  first  flowers 
of  the  year ;  and  a  black  snake  dozing  in  the 
sand  by  the  wayside.  He,  being  heavy  with 
winter  slumber,  was  caught,  measured,  and  found 
to  lie  four  feet  four  inches  without  stretching. 
His  teeth  were  long  and  sharp.  Being  given 


A   TfiJP  TO  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  97 

his  freedom  unhurt  he  rewarded  us  by  some 
brilliant  tree  climbing,  during  which  he  glided 
up  a  trunk,  in  and  out  among  branches,  and 
along  limbs  from  tree  to  tree.  I  hope  he  will 
do  no  harm  during  the  new  term  of  life  which 
we  gave  him. 

A  little  after  two  o'  clock  we  said  adieu  to 
North  Truro,  the  fair  lighthouse,  the  cliffs,  the 
heaving  Atlantic,  and  the  plaintive  starlings. 
As  we  rolled  homeward  along  the  bay  shore 
hundreds  of  wild  ducks  flew,  swam,  or  sat 
motionless  upon  the  quiet  water.  Gulls  by  scores 
fed  on  the  bars  or  frolicked  in  the  sky.  Clouds 
gathered,  the  air  grew  colder,  and  by  midnight 
Massachusetts  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the 
fiercest  storms  of  the  year. 


THE  CURRENT   OF  MUSKETAQUID. 

MONDAY,  the  6th  of  April,  found  me,  with  a 
friend  who  lives  close  to  nature's  heart,  floating 
down  the  current  of  Musketaquid.  We  launched 
a  light  Rushton  boat  at  the  feet  of  the  Mmute- 
Man,  and  were  swept  past  him,  by  the  battle- 
ground, in  the  tide  and  through  the  eddies  which 
Thoreau  knew  so  well  and  has  made  immortal. 
On  that  morning  bright  with  sunshine  yet  cold 
with  the  breath  of  snowbanks  on  Wachusett,  it 
was  Thoreau's  spirit  more  than  that  of  the  fight- 
ing farmers  or  fanciful  Hawthorne  which  seemed 
to  rule  the  Old  Manse  ground,  the  ancient  trees 
along  the  water's  edge,  the  swirling  river,  the 
singing  blackbirds,  and  the  landscape  of  willows, 
hills,  and  distant  woods.  As  we  were  taking 
out  the  boat  from  its  house,  a  downy  woodpecker 
drummed  for  his  mate's  enjoyment  on  the  sound- 
ing branches  and  trunk  of  a  dead  tree  at  the 
water's  edge.  He  made  three  different  tones  on 
his  drum.  A  white-bellied  nuthatch  was  going 
from  tree  to  tree  calling  loudly.  His  home  of 
last  year  had  been  cut  down,  and  he  seemed  to 


THE  CURRENT   OF  MUSKETAQ.UID.  99 

be  searching  for  it.  A  pair  of  chickadees  passed 
by  and  exchanged  greetings  with  the  nuthatch. 
Song  sparrows  in  all  directions  were  singing. 
Now  and  then  the  wild  note  of  a  cowbird  and 
the  more  distant  and  plaintive  call  of  a  meadow 
starling  came  to  our  ears.  Robins  were  abun- 
dant and  noisy. 

As  our  boat  floated  down  the  river  and  turned 
a  bend  towards  the  arched  stone  bridge  I  glanced 
back  and  saw  a  man  with  a  gun  standing  on  a 
ledge  above  us.  I  opened  my  lips  to  call  my 
friend's  attention  to  him,  when  a  second  glance 
showed  me  that  it  was  the  Minute-Man,  secure 
on  his  pedestal  and  not  climbing  over  the  nearer 
rocks,  as  he  seemed  to  be.  The  current  under 
the  bridge  was  very  strong,  and  for  the  gentle 
Musketaquid,  very  swift.  It  required  dexterous 
paddling  to  keep  a  straight  course  through  the 
central  arch.  Beyond  the  bridge  the  river  lost 
itself  in  flooded  meadows.  To  one  familiar  with 
its  rightful  banks,  a  bunch  of  willows,  an  elm 
and  a  maple  or  two  told  the  secret  of  its  course. 
But  to  me  it  seemed  that  we  were  entering  a 
beautiful  lake,  which  promised  to  grow  wider 
and  fairer  the  longer  we  sailed  upon  it.  Com- 
fortable farmhouses  stood  upon  the  higher 
ground  and  looked  down  at  the  unruly  stream. 
Perhaps  they  recalled  the  days  before  the  Lowell 
dams,  when  the  river  was  a  friend  and  not  a 


100         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

tyrant  to  their  fair  intervales.  Along  the  shel- 
tered furrows  in  the  ploughed  fields  and  against 
the  cold  side  of  stone  walls  ribbons  of  white 
snow  lay  in  hiding  from  the  sun.  Even  in  the 
streets  of  Concord  we  had  seen  good-sized  drifts, 
and  piles  under  roof  angles.  The  storm  of  the 
Friday  previous,  which  along  the  coast  brought 
rain,  had  turned  to  snow  here,  while  further  in- 
land many  inches  of  snow  had  fallen,  blocking 
roads  and  breaking  wires.  The  west  wind  blow- 
ing across  this  wintry  stretch  of  country  came 
to  us  well  whetted. 

From  one  sloping  field  it  brought  us  the  med- 
ley music  of  a  flock  of  over  sixtjr  redwings.  As 
we  listened  to  the  distant  choir  a  rich  undercur- 
rent of  sound  came  to  us.  "  Wild  geese,"  I  ex- 
claimed. My  friend  shook  his  head  doubtfully, 
but  paddled  ashore  to  see  whether  blackbirds 
really  composed  the  whole  orchestra.  We  found 
them  on  a  patch  of  high  meadow,  some  in  the 
trees  singing,  others  on  the  ground  feeding.  All 
rose  and  whirled  like  a  puff  of  burnt  paper  in 
the  breeze.  Then  they  settled  again,  and  the 
deeper  notes  in  their  medley  came  to  us  once 
more  like  the  far-off  honking  of  geese.  Then  we 
floated  on  by  meadow  and  brier  patch  ;  thickets 
of  birch  in  which  the  faint  spring  tints  were  be- 
ginning to  grow  clearer  and  stronger ;  ploughed 
fields  over  which  j uncos  flashed  their  white  V's ; 


THE  CURRENT  OF  MUSKETAQ.UID.          101 

bunches  of  pitch-pines  almost  as  rich  as  savins 
in  their  olive-green  coloring ;  ancient  orchards 
in  which  respectable  families  of  bluebirds  still  re- 
side untroubled  by  the  emigrant  sparrow  ;  single 
graceful  elms  on  whose  finger  tips  dangled  the 
gray  purses  of  last  year's  orioles  ;  fringes  of  wil- 
lows bearing  their  pussies,  a  few  of  which  showed 
their  yellow  stamens  just  projecting;  and  maples 
on  whose  highest  twigs  balanced  the  resident  red- 
wings, running  over  with  rippling  laughter.  My 
friend  spoke  of  a  theory  that  all  bird  music  is 
imitative  of  the  sounds  best  known  to  the  spe- 
cies, and  said  that  the  notes  of  the  redwings 
seemed  to  bear  out  this  pretty  hypothesis,  hav- 
ing the  sound  of  water  running  through  their 
sweet  measures. 

Gliding  across  a  placid  bay  in  the  meadow  we 
came  to  a  wooded  shore  where  a  noble  oak  had 
just  been  slain.  We  landed,  and  kneeling  by  its 
stump  counted  the  year  rings.  At  first  it  had 
grown  slowly,  its  young  life  trembling  in  the 
balance  ;  then  it  gained  strength,  and  the  rings 
were  broader  and  more  firmly  marked  ;  some- 
times narrower  ones  suggested  years  of  drought ; 
then  as  our  count  rose  to  a  hundred,  the  rings 
grew  closer  and  closer,  as  though  life  passed  by 
very  fast  in  those"  years.  In  all,  the  oak  must 
have  lived  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  years,  and 
have  heard  the  echo  of  those  musket  shots  which 


102         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

marked  the  dawn  of  Independence,  the  sunrise 
guns  of  American  Freedom.  My  friend  looked 
very  grave  when  he  saw  that  this  tree  was  gone. 
It  had  been  a  landmark,  not  only  on  the  shore 
of  Musketaquid,  but  on  the  shore  of  his  life,  of 
which  a  precious  part  had  been  spent  on  this 
river  of  flooded  meadows.  Above  the  oak  rose 
a  bold  headland  crowned  with  plumelike  pines. 
It  was  Ball's  Hill,  which  Thoreau  called  "  the 
St.  Ann's  of  Concord."  We  sought  the  top  and 
looked  down  upon  the  fair  picture  below  us. 
Great  Meadows,  the  "  broad  moccasin  print," 
was  one  rippling  lake,  dotted  with  islands  or 
single  trees.  The  river,  from  the  stone  arch 
bridge,  just  passed,  down  to  Carlisle  bridge  with 
its  wooden  piers,  had  merged  its  life  in  this 
blue  archipelago.  The  distant  tower  of  Bedford 
church  recalled  my  melting  walk  of  a  month  ago, 
when  over  the  snowdrifts  the  sun  of  March  had 
nearly  burned  my  eyes  out  and  quite  scorched 
the  skin  from  my  lips  and  cheeks.  Early  spring 
in  Massachusetts  is  a  crab-like  thing,  but  it  has 
its  charms.  In  a  ploughed  field  behind  the  bluff, 
we  found  fox  tracks,  and  under  a  lofty  pine, 
pellets  of  mouse  hair,  which  some  owl  (or  crow 
perhaps)  had  cast  from  its  mouth  undigested. 

Taking  boat  once  more  we  wound  in  and  out 
along  the  northern  shore.  Here,  fox  sparrows 
scratched  in  the  bushes  and  paused  surprised  at 


THE  CURRENT  OF   MUSKETAQU1D.         103 

the  silent  monster  slipping  past  them  on  the 
lake.  There,  a  shy  grouse  with  ruff  wide  spread 
watched  us  a  moment  from  beneath  a  proud 
oak's  shade,  and  then  tiptoed  away  cackling  her 
alarm  until  the  shelter  of  the  great  boll  gave 
her  a  chance  to  fly.  Above,  a  red-shouldered 
hawk  mewed,  and  glass  in  hand  we  saw  him  and 
his  mate  rise  hundreds  of  feet  into  the  sky,  until 
one  was  lost  in  spinning  motes  of  light,  and  the 
other,  setting  her  wings,  sped  down  the  chute  of 
sky  miles  away  in  the  northeast.  At  last,  best 
of  all,  on  the  eastern  edge  of  the  meadows  sev- 
eral snow-white  specks  were  seen  upon  the  water. 
"  Sheldrakes,"  whispered  my  companion.  They 
were  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  but  seemed  to 
have  seen  or  heard  us,  for  they  were  restless. 
Several  times  one  of  the  males  rose  in  the  water 
and  flapped  his  wings.  Then  all  took  wing  and 
made  four  or  five  spirals  in  the  air,  ending  by 
disappearing  behind  a  distant  growth  of  birches. 
"  There  is  a  pond  in  there,"  said  my  friend, 
"  with  flooded  meadows  which  lead  to  it."  Keep- 
ing perfect  silence  we  paddled  swiftly  across  the 
dancing  water  to  the  opposite  shore.  There  the 
groves  opened  for  us,  and  a  narrow  belt  of  shal- 
lows led  into  an  inner  meadow.  The  ducks  were 
not  in  it.  Crossing  it,  another  opening  was  found 
leading  to  a  third  lake.  As  we  entered  this 
strait  I  caught  an  alder  bough,  and  held  the 


104         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

boat  fast,  for  not  more  than  two  hundred  yards 
from  us  were  the  five  ducks  floating  tranquilly 
in  the  sheltered  lagoon.  So  silent  had  been  our 
approach,  that  although  the  wind  was  behind  us, 
the  ducks  did  not  suspect  our  coming.  Our 
glasses  made  the  beautiful  creatures  seem  only 
a  few  rods  distant,  and  we  watched  them  closely. 
One  of  them  was  a  black  or  dusky  duck,  the 
most  abundant  species  at  this  season.  The  other 
four  were  mergansers,  called  also  goosanders, 
fish  ducks,  or  sheldrakes.  Two  were  males,  two 
females  ;  the  drakes  had  lustrous  bottle-green 
heads,  and  bodies  which  appeared  snowy  white. 
They  were  enjoying  the  sunlight,  and  drifting 
along  slightly  with  the  wind.  The  black  duck 
kept  with  them,  yet  a  little  apart,  —  a  duck,  yet 
not  one  of  the  family.  They  preened  themselves, 
and  soft  white  feathers  floated  lightly  away  upon 
the  ripples.  When  we  had  watched  long  enough, 
a  blow  upon  the  gunwale  alarmed  the  flock. 
They  swam  a  few  feet,  first  one  way,  then  an- 
other. Every  motion  showed  alertness.  A  sec- 
ond sound  booming  across  the  water  started 
them.  Their  wings  dashed  the  waves  into  foam- 
ing furrows  several  feet  long  ;  then  with  steady 
flight  they  rose  in  a  long  diagonal  and  passed 
out  of  sight  behind  the  birches.  But  only  four 
flew.  Sweeping  the  water  with  our  glasses  we 
discovered  the  black  duck  still  floating  upon  its 


THE   CURRENT   OF  MUSKETAQ.UW.         105 

surface.  We  pushed  the  boat  forward  into  the 
lagoon,  and  the  moment  he  located  the  danger 
he  rose  without  a  splash  and  was  gone. 

Rowing  back  to  the  Carlisle  side  we  found  a 
snug  corner  by  a  jolly  little  brook  which  danced 
across  a  pasture  down  to  a  meadow,  between  the 
rubble  walls  of  an  ancient  sluice,  through  the 
pine  woods  and  into  Great  Meadows.  Over  the 
brook  stood  an  oak ;  in  the  oak  sat  a  bluebird  ; 
from  the  bluebird's  inmost  soul  poured  the 
sweetest  of  bird  music,  and,  wonderful  to  relate, 
this  music  as  it  fell  upon  the  air  turned  into 
goldfinches  which  undulated  over  the  pasture, 
finally  rested  upon  the  oak  and  added  their  songs 
to  the  general  joy  of  the  occasion.  It  may  be 
said  by  harsh  commentators  that  goldfinches 
never  could  have  been  made  out  of  bluebirds' 
music.  Then  the  burden  is  on  them  to  prove 
where  the  goldfinches  come  from,  for  to  our 
eyes  they  came  from  the  air,  which  had  nothing 
in  it  except  the  song  of  the  bluebird.  After 
lunch  and  a  wonderful  concert  in  which  the  blue- 
bird sang  the  solo  and  the  goldfinches  did  every- 
thing else  to  make  it  perfect,  we  examined  the 
ancient  sluice.  The  stone  work  was  rough  and 
without  cement.  The  dam  was  of  earth  and 
from  it  grew  several  oaks,  one  of  which  may 
have  taken  root  fifty  years  ago.  As  we  mused 
about  the  dam  and  its  history,  a  broad-winged, 


106         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

bluish-gray  bird  nearly  as  large  as  an  eagle 
sailed  swiftly  over  the  meadow.  Its  course  was 
low,  only  a  foot  or  two  above  the  grass,  and  as 
waving  from  side  to  side  as  the  letter  S.  It  was 
a  marsh  hawk  sweeping  the  low  lands  for  mice 
and  frogs.  As  we  walked  across  the  grass  he 
had  been  inspecting,  we  found  it  dotted  with 
small  piles  of  fresh  earth  apparently  thrown  up 
by  some  burrowing  animal  working  from  beneath 
the  sod.  There  were  also  scores  of  runways  or 
grooved  passages  under  the  matted  grass.  In 
places  our  feet  sank  into  subterranean  chambers, 
and  in  fact  the  whole  field  seemed  to  have  been 
honeycombed  by  moles,  or  meadow  mice  (ar- 
vicola  pennsylvanicus).  The  harrier  was  not 
the  only  bird  interested  in  this  field  of  mice. 
Under  almost  every  one  of  nearly  a  dozen  old 
apple  trees  growing  near  by  we  found  "  owl  pel- 
lets," the  egg-shaped  masses  of  undigested  fur, 
feathers,  teeth  and  bones  which  owls  habitually 
eject  from  their  mouths  when  well  fed. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  on  we  came  to  a 
stubble  field  near  the  banks  of  Great  Meadows. 
A  stubble  field,  with  a  stone  wall  and  a  fringe 
of  bushes  round  it,  is  a  fine  place  for  migrating 
sparrows.  Fully  a  hundred  birds  were  feeding 
in  this  field  or  singing  in  the  trees  which  bor- 
dered it.  They  were  fox  sparrows  and  juncos, 
and  it  would  be  impossible  to  say  which  were  in 


THE   CURRENT  OF  MUSKETAQUID.          107 

the  majority.  We  crept  up  to  them  gradually 
until  all  had  retreated  to  the  trees  at  one  corner 
of  the  field.  Then  we  merged  ourselves  in  the 
stone  wall  and  its  brambles  and  bushes,  and  re- 
mained motionless.  One  by  one  the  birds  drew 
nearer.  I  imitated  the  shrill  singing  of  a  canary. 
They  began  to  sing,  and  the  more  distant  birds 
flew  boldly  over  us  and  into  the  weeds  in  the 
field.  Soon  the  air  was  full  of  them,  passing 
close  to  our  heads.  When  they  were  settled,  we 
crossed  the  wall  and  crawled  along  behind  it 
until  we  were  within  ten  feet  of  some  of  the  fox 
sparrows.  These  we  watched  through  the  cracks 
in  the  wall,  and  saw  them  scratch  with  both  feet 
in  the  earth  and  dry  leaves.  A  hen  scratches 
with  one  foot  at  a  time.  These  birds  hitch  back- 
wards on  both  feet,  twitching  their  wings  at  the 
same  moment  and  moving  both  feet  together, 
although  not  often  exactly  side  by  side.  A  few 
of  them  sang  their  full  song  close  by  us.  It  is  a 
wonderful  performance,  full  of  strength,  variety 
and  brilliancy.  When  the  hermit  thrush  sings 
1  feel  as  though  the  pine  forest  had  been  trans- 
formed into  a  cathedral,  in  which  the  power  of  an 
organ  or  the  rich  voice  of  a  contralto  singer  was 
bringing  out  the  essence  of  the  mass.  When 
the  fox  sparrow  sings,  the  effect  is  entirely  dif- 
ferent. The  quality  of  the  music  seems  joyous, 
not  pathetic :  that  of  the  grand  piano  rather  than 


108         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

of  the  organ ;  that  of  the  dance  and  sunlight 
rather  than  that  of  vespers.  As  a  maker  of 
brilliant,  vivacious  music  the  fox  sparrow  stands 
among  the  first.  It  deserves  a  place  in  the  list 
of  the  ten  finest  New  England  bird  singers.  In 
voice,  costume  and  manners  the  bird  betrays 
noble  birth.  It  is  a  pity  that  it  does  not  nest 
within  the  limits  of  our  country. 

Tearing  ourselves  away  from  the  sparrows,  we 
returned  to  our  boat.  On  the  bits  of  driftwood 
lining  the  shore  I  found  multitudes  of  little 
creatures  which  I  could  not  distinguish  from  snow 
fleas.  If  they  are  not  the  same  they  must  be 
next  of  kin  to  the  jolly  little  winter  bristletails. 
The  voyage  back  toward  the  sunset  was  not 
eventful.  A  flock  of  black  ducks  passed  up- 
stream, flying  high  and  at  wonderful  speed. 
They  are  far  from  graceful,  but  they  give  one 
the  impression  of  immense  power  of  wing.  Had 
this  flock  been  well  harnessed  I  think  they  could 
have  drawn  me  with  them  out  of  sight  in  golden 
haze  much  faster  than  would  have  been  comfort- 
able. Redwings  sang  in  every  tree  top.  Crows 
took  long  flights,  cawing  as  they  flew.  Chicka- 
dees in  pairs  responded  to  the  phrebe  note  so  well 
mimicked  by  my  companion.  Muskrats  swam  in 
the  eddies  of  the  stream.  We  saw  two  swim- 
ming fast  round  and  round  a  bunch  of  maples 
standing  alone  in  the  water.  They  paid  little 


THE   CURRENT  OF  MUSKETAQUID.          109 

attention  to  us  as  we  passed.  As  we  reached 
the  Minute-Man  the  chill  of  the  western  snows 
came  upon  us  more  keenly.  The  coloring  of 
sky,  woods  and  river  was  exquisite.  The  mass 
of  the  heavens  was  deep  blue.  Upon  it  flakes  of 
cloud  rested,  taking  from  the  sun  the  glory  of 
gold  and  of  crimson.  Low  down  in  the  east  a 
bank  of  very  dark  blue  clouds  made  a  rich  back- 
ground for  the  stems  of  the  gleaming  birches  and 
the  burnished  twigs  of  the  willows.  Just  where 
the  sun  sank,  gold  and  orange  and  crimson  min- 
gled to  form  a  gateway  through  which  the  day 
was  slowly  withdrawing.  As  we  stood  under 
the  great  elms  by  the  Manse  the  river  repeated 
the  story  of  the  sky.  Had  Lohengrin  floated 
westward  over  the  gilded  water  towards  that 
gateway  I  should  have  bent  my  head  without 
surprise  to  catch  those  few  soul-moving  notes  by 
which  he  says  "  Farewell." 


A  BIT  OF  COLOR. 

THURSDAY,  April  16,  at  five  o'  clock  in  the 
afternoon,  I  reached  the  shores  of  Fresh  Pond 
at  the  point  where  a  branch  of  the  Fitchburg 
railway  crosses  the  Concord  turnpike.  This  part 
of  Cambridge  is  soon  to  be  changed  in  many 
ways,  and  is  worth  a  particular  description. 
From  the  Cambridge  Common  to  the  northeast 
corner  of  Fresh  Pond,  Concord  Avenue  runs 
almost  directly  northwest.  Beyond  this  point 
it  bends  twenty-five  degrees  towards  the  west 
and  continues  in  that  line  until  it  reaches  Bel- 
mont.  In  the  hollow  of  this  bend,  resting  on 
Fresh  Pond,  lies  one  of  the  most  picturesque  bits 
of  ground  in  Cambridge.  It  was  formerly  the 
estate  of  Frederick  Tudor,  the  ice  king.  A 
beautiful  lawn  many  acres  in  extent  is  fringed 
with  lofty  hard  -  wood  trees,  many  of  which 
are  dying,  but  all  of  which  are  beautiful  and 
worthy  of  careful  preservation,  and  exemp- 
tion from  all  but  the  most  necessary  trim- 
ming. On  the  water  front  at  the  northeastern 
corner  of  the  pond  are  two  immense  ice-houses, 
now  condemned  and  doomed  to  early  destruc- 


A  BIT  OF  COLOR.  Ill 

tion.  Perhaps  when  they  are  gone  it  will  be 
remembered  that  they  were  picturesque.  One, 
with  its  buttressed  brick  walls  coated  with  green 
lichens  and  overhung  by  a  projecting  upper  story 
of  gray  wood,  always  reminds  me  of  a  gloomy 
picture  I  have  seen  of  an  Algerian  walled  town. 
The  other,  overhanging  the  pond,  raises  a  tall 
gray  tower  against  the  sky,  and  looks  down  upon 
deep  water  through  which  broken  piles  emerge 
to  cast  black  shadows  in  the  mist.  When  these 
ice-houses  are  empty  they  are  sepulchral  and 
forbidding  places  to  enter.  The  least  sound 
awakes  echoes  in  the  darkness  of  the  roof.  Eng- 
lish sparrows  flit  about  and  scream,  and  the  air 
is  heavy  with  dampness  and  as  cold  as  a  tomb. 
On  Thursday  afternoon  I  turned  in  from  Con- 
cord Avenue  toward  these  ice-houses,  following 
the  freight  track,  which  runs  directly  towards 
them,  forming  a  barrier  between  Fresh  Pond  and 
a  foul  swamp  which  fills,  with  the  Tudor  place, 
the  bend  in  the  avenue.  The  swamp  is  a  thicket 
of  willows,  button  -  ball  bushes,  and  birches. 
The  early  willows  were  in  full  bloom,  their 
bright  yellow  staminate  and  green  pistillate 
flowers  swaying  in  the  wind.  Late  willows 
were  beautiful  with  their  small  pink-white 
pussies  and  unfolding  leaves  crowded  on  slender 
stems.  Here  and  there  a  tall  red  maple  raised 
its  branches  over  the  swamp  and  displayed  its 


112         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

gorgeous  flowers  in  the  pale  sunlight.  The  grass, 
only  a  few  days  ago  burned  over  by  the  frugal 
but  short-sighted  cify  workmen,  was  brilliantly 
green,  and  in  places  four  or  five  inches  long. 
When  July  suns  beat  down  upon  its  roots  it 
may  miss  its  mat  of  protecting  fibres  destroyed 
by  fire.  A  fox  sparrow  was  scratching  among 
the  grass  roots  energetically.  Several  redwings, 
song  sparrows,  and  a  large  flock  of  English  spar- 
rows were  at  work  on  the  ground  near  by.  From 
the  swamp  the  music  of  song  sparrows  and  red- 
wings was  incessant. 

Passing  between  the  ice-houses  and  the  shan- 
ties and  hen  houses  which  stand  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  track  I  gained  the  fringe  of  lofty 
trees  on  the  Tudor  place.  A  flicker  was  guard- 
ing her  house  in  a  hollow  maple.  Now,  she 
poked  her  head  out  and  "  flickered  "  for  her 
mate.  Then,  he  answering  not,  she  came  out 
and  drummed  furiously  on  the  dead  resonant 
wood  by  her  door  post.  At  last  his  answer 
came  from  a  distant  tree  and  she  flew  away  to 
find  him.  A  female  sparrow  hawk  darted  from 
her  nest  in  the  deep  hollow  of  an  inaccessible 
limb,  and  flew  with  marvellous'  grace  into  the 
open,  wheeled,  and  dropped  upon  the  out- 
stretched finger  of  one  of  the  tallest  trees  of  this 
tall  grove.  Her  mate  joined  her  and  perched 
for  a  second  beside  her,  while  a  queer  whining 


A  BIT  OF  COLOR.  113 

chatter  came  from  them.  Their  coloring  is  as 
beautiful  as  that  of  the  fox  sparrow,  and  if  they 
cannot  revive  the  fainting  heart  by  song,  they 
can  give  the  eye  joy  by  their  speed,  their  perfect 
grace  of  flight,  and  the  beauty  of  their  outlines. 

On  the  further  side  of  the  neglected  lawn 
nearly  a  hundred  purple  grackles  were  feeding 
in  the  grass.  They  rose,  blurring  the  sky  in  the 
north,  and  darkened  the  tops  of  a  dozen  trees 
where  they  perched  and  "  creaked  "  in  disgust  at 
my  coming. 

Looking  across  the  pond  the  further  shores 
showed  but  dimly.  A  strong  east  wind  had 
been  blowing  all  day,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with 
the  grayness  of  the  sea.  The  water  was  metallic 
in  its  lights  and  shadows,  its  points  of  reflected 
fire  and  stripes  of  darkness.  Distant  banks  of 
birches  and  willows  showed  faint  tones  of  green, 
red,  and  yellow  through  the  silver  veil  of  the 
chilly  air.  Mount  Saint  Joseph  stood  up  dark 
and  strong  in  the  middle  of  the  opposing  shore, 
its  hemlocks  and  pines  yielding  black  reflec- 
tions in  the  sullen  water.  A  train  rolled  along 
across  Concord  Avenue,  and  stopped  at  the  Fresh 
Pond  station.  Its  outlines  were  vague  and  its 
smoke  seemed  part  of  the  gray  air,  until  an  open 
furnace  door  sent  a  flood  of  orange  light  up 
through  it,  and  revealed  its  writhings  and  alter- 
nations of  whiteness  and  blackness  as  the  train 
puffed  on  towards  the  setting  sun. 


114         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

I  left  the  Tudor  place  and  kept  on  round  the 
pond.  First  I  came  to  an  ugly  wound  in  the 
high  bank,  where  gravel  is  being  cut  away  to  fill 
"  Black's  Nook."  Then  I  passed  in  order  the 
half-filled  Nook,  the  white  ice-houses  of  the  Fresh 
Pond  Ice  Company,  the  great  gravel  banks  on 
the  western  side  of  the  pond,  the  swamp  full  of 
blazing  red  maples,  almost  as  gay  in  their  blos- 
soms as  in  their  ripened  foliage  last  autumn ; 
the  "  geyser "  where  Stony  Brook  water,  after 
its  long  journey  underground  from  the  land  of 
Norumbega,  bursts  out  in  clustered  jets  and  falls 
foaming  into  Fresh  Pond,  and  finally  Mount 
Saint  Joseph  itself,  none  the  less  picturesque 
because  the  white  caps  of  the  Sisters  are  occa- 
sionally to  be  seen  flitting  back  and  forth  amid 
its  shrubbery.  The  white  caps  and  their  school 
building  are  doomed  to  banishment  under  the 
law  of  eminent  domain,  and  in  a  few  months 
they,  like  the  ice-palaces  of  the  Tudors,  will 
have  been  made  over  to  the  past. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  PEGAN  HILL. 

LOOKING  southward  from  the  heights  above 
Arlington,  Belmont  and  Waltham,  the  distant 
horizon  is  bounded  at  one  point  by  a  wooded 
ridge  having  a  bold  outline  and,  to  the  explorer, 
a  most  challengeful  air.  Contour  map  and  com- 
pass declared  this  ridge  to  be  Pegan  Hill,  the 
dominant  height  of  the  Needham  -  Natick  re- 
gion. Taking  the  8  o'clock  train  on  the  "  Woon- 
socket  division,"  which  in  my  mind  had  previ- 
ously been  classed  with  the  "  Saugus  branch  " 
as  a  railway  snare  to  be  avoided,  I  sought  on 
April  18  the  unknown  town  of  Dover.  My 
companion  was  a  determined  man  who  years  ago 
had  registered  a  vow  to  climb  Pegan  Hill  or 
perish  among  its  cliffs  and  forests. 

The  early  morning  of  April  18  was  gray  and 
somewhat  chilly.  My  friend  brought  an  um- 
brella and  overcoat,  I  wore  rubber  boots  and  an 
overcoat.  By  noon  the  mercury  had  passed  80° 
and  was  still  vigorous. 

As  we  left  the  train,  maps  in  hand,  Pegan 
Hill  was  reported  to  bear  due  west.  We  raised 
our  eyes  to  meet  the  challengeful  foe,  A  broad 


116        LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

meadow  clad  in  the  tender  green  of  freshly 
sprouting  grass  was  encircled  by  comfortable 
farms  whose  ploughed  fields,  orchards,  elms  and 
scattered  buildings  framed  it  pleasantly.  A  pair 
of  brooks  wandered  across  it,  met,  pledged  eter- 
nal friendship  and  passed  on  united,  singing, 
looking  up  blue-eyed  towards  heaven.  High  in 
the  air  white-bellied  swallows  revelled  in  the 
sunlight.  The  sweet-breathed  west  wind  bore 
to  us  the  kindred  songs  of  the  purple  finch  and 
the  vesper  sparrow,  the  plaint  of  the  meadow 
lark,  the  drumming  of  the  downy  woodpecker 
and  the  cawing  of  the  crow.  In  a  pine  grove 
near  by,  the  pine-creeping  warbler  and  the  chip- 
ping sparrow  contrasted  their  monotonous  repe- 
titions of  a  single  note,  the  one  giving  a  smooth, 
well-rounded  trill,  the  other  a  sharper,  more 
pointed  one.  Beyond  the  meadow  and  the  farms 
lay  a  sunny  pasture  hillside,  crossed  horizontally 
by  a  stone  wall,  and  sparsely  marked  by  pitch- 
pines  and  small  savins.  The  sky-line  of  this 
gentle  slope  was  curved,  drumlin-like.  West- 
ward there  was  nothing  more  to  see  save  blue 
sky  and  four  cowbuntings  flying  swiftly  across 
it.  Where  was  the  tree-crowned  rocky  summit 
we  had  come  to  conquer  ?  The  redwings  an- 
swered, "  Cong-ka-ree,  go  and  see  !  "  So  we 
strolled  onward  across  the  meadow,  through  the 
farms  and  up  the  slope  of  the  pasture  hill. 


THE   CONQUEST  OF  PEG  AN  HILL.          117 

The  air  was  filled  with  a  silvery  haze  which 
made  distance  mysterious,  and  the  nearer  land- 
scape dreamy  and  full  of  suggestions  of  Indian 
summer.  The  songs  of  field  sparrows  rippled 
continuously  across  the  hillside.  A  pigeon 
woodpecker  "  flickered  "  persistently  in  a  grove 
of  maples  and  chestnuts.  While  standing  be- 
hind a  stone  wall  and  half  concealed  by  its  reti- 
nue of  bushes  we  heard  a  rippling  warbler-song 
and  caught  a  flash  of  gold  and  green  in  a  bar- 
berry bush  close  at  hand.  A  slender  bird  about 
five  inches  long,  golden  olive-brown  above  and 
rich  yellow  beneath,  paused  in  the  barberry  for 
us  to  watch  him.  As  he  moved  his  dainty  head 
we  saw  that  his  crown  was  reddish  chestnut,  and 
as  he  threw  up  his  head  to  sing  we  saw  that  his 
breast  and  sides  were  lightly  pencilled  with  a 
similar  shade.  Although  I  had  heard  the  pine 
warbler  sing,  this,  a  yellow  red-poll  warbler,  was 
the  first  of  the  great  migrating  family  of  Sylvi- 
colidce  which  I  had  met  this  spring.  As  my 
heart  grew  warm  towards  him  a  crow  and  a 
dashing  little  falcon  rose  from  behind  the  hill 
and  whirled  together  in  the  air.  We  promptly 
forgot  the  tiny  warbler,  dropped  behind  the 
wall,  and  fixed  our  glasses  on  the  falcon,  which 
had  alighted  on  the  highest  plume  of  a  low  pitch- 
pine.  Suddenly  it  swooped  to  the  ground, 
caught  an  insect  from  the  grass,  and  came  to  a 


118         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

treetop  nearer  us.  As  it  alternately  caught 
grasshoppers  and  perched  to  eat  them  and  watch 
for  more,  we  crept  from  bush  to  bush  nearer 
to  the  circle  of  its  hunting-ground.  Several 
times  it  came  within  gunshot,  and  as  we  saw  it 
from  all  points  of  view,  its  rich  coloring  was 
clearly  revealed.  The  top  of  its  head  and  its 
tail  were  brilliant  chestnut.  Its  back  was  cinna- 
mon, its  breast  light  and  finely  barred  on  the 
sides.  Around  its  throat  it  seemed  to  wear  a 
collar  formed  of  alternate  bars  of  black  and 
white.  Its  head  was  small,  its  whole  bearing 
alert,  graceful,  supple.  After  watching  it  for 
some  time  we  perceived  that  its  mate  was  hunt- 
ing in  much  the  same  manner  part  way  down 
the  slope  of  the  hill.  The  birds  were  sparrow 
hawks  in  the  perfection  of  spring  plumage. 

One  of  their  perches  was  a  rude  tripod  made 
of  joist.  This  marked  the  summit  of  the  hill 
which  we  had  reached  almost  without  knowing 
it.  Seated  at  its  foot  we  looked  north,  east, 
south  and  west  over  the  fair  meadows,  fields  and 
groves  of  the  Charles  River  valley.  The  me- 
andering river  itself  was  in  sight  in  every  quar- 
ter but  the  southeast,  and  there  its  tributaries 
formed  an  interlacing  barrier.  But  where  was 
Pegan  Hill  ?  We  consulted  the  map. 

Due  north  of  us  were  Lake  Waban,  Wellesley, 
and  Wellesley  College.  Across  the  north  and 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  PEG  AN  HILL.    119 

part  of  the  east  the  river,  its  vivid  green 
meadows,  and  its  ruddy  maples  led  the  eye 
along.  Natick  and  Sherborn,  the  one  a  grow- 
ing town,  the  other  a  tract  of  farms  and  pleasant 
glimpses  of  blue  water,  filled  the  west.  To  the 
south  the  view  was  limited,  being  cut  short 
by  several  rocky  ridges  of  unattractive  outlines 
and  vegetation,  which  our  map  said  were  Clark 
Hill  and  Pine  Rock  Hill.  The  centre  of  all 
this  country  which  our  eyes  delighted  to  rest 
upon,  so  full  was  it  of  beautiful  tints,  was 
marked  plainly  Pegan  Hill.  A  bloodless  vic- 
tory !  We  had  sought  the  enemy  with  mighty 
preparations,  and  behold  he  had  kissed  our  feet, 
and  made  himself  our  footstool.  The  ridge 
which  had  attracted  our  eyes  from  Prospect  Hill 
we  felt  sure  was  Pine  Rock  Hill,  equal  in  height 
with  Pegan,  but  covered  with  a  sparse  growth 
of  small  deciduous  trees  promising  neither  birds, 
flowers,  nor  other  inducements  for  a  climb. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  the  northern  side  we 
found  some  charming  spots  on  the  borders  of  the 
Charles.  One  was  on  the  Needham  side  of  the 
river,  where  an  extensive  grove  of  stately  old- 
growth  white  pines  overhung  a  sharp  bend  in  the 
stream,  making  its  deep  and  swift  current  very 
dark  in  contrast  to  a  flat  bit  of  meadow  opposite, 
which  was  radiant  with  tender  green  of  newly 
sprouted  grass.  A  grouse  rose  from  a  cool  brook 


120         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

hollow  near  this  bend.  A  pewee  called  to  us  as  she 
hurried  through  the  grove.  A  flock  of  five  white- 
bellied  swallows  cut  swift  circles  against  the 
kindly  sky.  The  voice  of  the  west  wind  in  the 
ancient  pines  sang  a  song  full  of  rest  and  con- 
tentment, and  for  us,  as  for  the  river,  it  was 
pleasant  and  purifying  to  linger  there  before 
going  on  to  the  friction  and  the  pollution  of  the 
city.  In  all  that  day's  wandering  I  saw  no  sign 
of  terror  in  any  living  thing  that  was  not  caused 
by  man.  Nature  by  herself  is  not  all  peace,  by 
any  means,  but  she  is  far  nearer  to  it  than  when 
man  is  present. 

On  the  edge  of  these  beautiful  pines,  as  at 
several  other  points  in  our  walk,  my  friend  and 
I  were  angered  to  find  the  largest  and  finest 
trees  selected  as  posting  places  for  advertise- 
ments ;  cloth,  paper,  wood,  and  metal  signs  telling 
of  the  supposed  merits  of  certain  Boston  firms 
and  daily  newspapers,  having  been  nailed  to  the 
trees.  It  is  hard  to  say  which  fact  is  most  dis- 
agreeable to  contemplate,  the  boldness  of  the 
advertisers  in  disfiguring  private  property,  or 
the  indifference  of  the  public  to  the  damage 
done. 

Following  up  the  Charles  through  the  pines 
we  reached  the  Sudbury  River  aqueduct,  and 
from  the  top  of  its  sodded  embankment  gained 
a  near  view  of  Wellesley  and  its  castles  of 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  PEG  AN  HILL.         121 

learning.  Looking  across  the  meadows  of 
Dewing  Brook,  never  greener  than  at  that 
moment,  we  were  charmed  by  the  distant  pic- 
ture of  feeding  cattle,  boys  fishing  in  the  brook, 
snug  and  well-fashioned  farm  buildings,  lofty 
shade  trees  in  full  bloom,  and  behind  them  the 
clustered  buildings  of  the  college  and  the  town. 
It  might  have  been  a  mellow  fragment  of  old 
England  but  for  the  bunch  of  very  new,  dirty, 
and  disorderly  shanties  which  appeared  in  one 
corner  of  the  picture  to  remind  us  that  New 
England  is  also  New  Ireland.  Entering  the 
town,  we  made  our  way  to  the  railway  station 
with  speed  and  directness.  As  it  was  Saturday 
afternoon  a  fair  share  of  the  eight  hundred 
students  (or  a  share  of  the  eight  hundred  fair 
students)  were  in  the  streets,  walking,  driving, 
bicycling,  catching  trains  for  town,  exercising 
dogs,  and  otherwise  disporting  themselves.  My 
companion  being  a  bachelor,  still  in  moderate 
years,  I  sighed  with  relief  when  our  train  started 
and  I  had  him  safely  penned  in  a  front  seat 
next  the  window. 


WOOD   DUCKS  AND  BLOODROOT. 

THE  maple  swamps  of  Ale  wife  Brook  are 
places  rich  in  birds,  but  they  are  even  richer  in 
foul  odors.  They  are  not  pleasant  at  any  hour, 
least  of  all  at  sunrise.  In -order  to  go  from 
Cambridge  in  the  early  morning  into  any  other 
woods  than  these,  it  is  necessary  to  walk  quite  a 
long  distance,  or  else  to  take  the  first  train 
which  goes  out  from  Boston  over  the  Fitchburg 
tracks.  On  April  20  I  caught  this  train  at 
Hill's  Crossing  at  6.41  A.  M.,  having  walked  out 
Concord  Avenue  to  the  Tudor  place,  round  the 
northern  edge  of  Fresh  Pond,  past  the  slaughter- 
house opposite  Black's  Nook  and  over  the  mead- 
ows to  the  little  station.  The  walk  was  charm- 
ing, for  at  that  early  hour  there  were  more  birds 
than  men  in  Cambridge  streets,  and  the  men 
were  laborers,  with  earnest  faces,  strong  arms, 
and  brown  hands,  who  seemed  close  to  the  soil 
and  its  secrets.  In  the  Harvard  Observatory 
grounds  a  ruby-crowned  kinglet  was  singing. 
Less  than  an  inch  longer  than  a  humming  bird, 
this  little  creature  has  one  of  the  most  delightful 


WOOD  DUCKS  AND  BLOODROOT.  123 

songs   known   to   New  England  woods.     It  is  • 
very  kind  of  it  to  sing  here  when  its  breeding 
ground    may    be   two    or   three    hundred  miles 
north  of  us. 

The  Fresh  Pond  trees  and  fields  were  alive 
with  birds.  Two  pairs  of  flickers  were  "  flick- 
ering ; "  robins  ran  on  the  ground,  shouted  in 
the  apple-trees,  chased  each  other  through  the 
air;  meadow  starlings,  redwings,  and  purple 
grackles  could  be  heard  and  seen  in  all 
parts  of  the  Tudor  place.  White  -  bellied 
swallows  danced  across  the  sky,  and  the  harsh 
rattle  of  the  kingfisher  marked  the  flight  of  that 
vigorous  bird  over  the  waters  of  the  pond.  The 
dry  note  of  the  chipping  sparrow  was  incessant 
and  wearisome,  but  when  the  sparrow  hawks  left 
their  favorite  corner  and  flew  with  their  match- 
less grace  through  the  grove  and  across  the  field, 
chipping  sparrows  were  forgotten. 

I  reached  Waverley  Oaks  as  the  village  clock 
struck  seven.  In  the  meadow  between  Beaver 
Brook  and  the  railway  embankment  quantities  of 
watercress  were  growing,  horsetails  stood  four 
inches  high,  and  a  jolly  dandelion  turned  its 
round  face  to  the  sun.  Horsechestnut  leaves 
were  open  on  the  19th,  and  here  in  the  meadow 
the  ferns  were  setting  free  their  coils,  and  leaves 
on  many  of  the  early  shrubs  were  open.  Was  the 
bloodroot  in  bloom?  that  was  the  question  of 


124         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

the  morning.  Along  the  wall  between  Beaver 
Brook  and  the  Oaks  white  buds  were  pointing 
heavenward  by  hundreds.  In  a  spot  where  the 
sunlight  fell  the  flowers  were  opening,  and  as 
the  warmth  of  the  rays  grew  stronger,  half 
the  glorious  company  opened  their  bright  eyes 
to  the  lovely  spring  morning.  There  are  few 
flowers  with  more  purity  in  their  faces  than 
bloodroot.  They  are  made  to  admire  and  love 
growing,  not  picked.  If  torn  from  their  roots 
their  dark  blood  stains  the  picker's  hand,  and 
soils  the  fair  petals  of  the  flowers  themselves ; 
even  if  tenderly  borne  to  a  vase  they  quickly 
drop  their  petals,  as  though  mourning  their 
home  under  the  shadow  of  the  barberry  bushes. 
Seated  among  these  delicate  children  of  the 
soil,  my  back  against  an  elm  trunk  and  my 
figure  obscured  by  the  drooping  branches  of  a 
bush,  I  watched  the  birds  among  the  oaks,  and 
near  the  small  pond  at  the  foot  of  the  kame  on 
which  some  of  the  oaks  grow.  The  voices  of 
robins,  song  and  chipping  sparrows,  cow  birds, 
redwings,  flickers,  and  bluebirds  filled  the  air. 
At  first  it  seemed  as  though  from  this  chorus 
single  notes  could  not  be  detached,  but  soon  the 
rattle  of  a  kingfisher  sounded  from  on  high. 
Looking  up  I  saw  three  of  these  birds  flying 
over  towards  Waltham  and  the  Charles.  They 
were  at  a  great  height  for  them,  and  I  could  not 


WOOD  DUCKS  AND  BLOODROOT.  125 

recall  ever  before  having  seen  more  than  two 
flying  together.  Before  they  were  out  of  sight  a 
sparrow  hawk  glided  over,  and  presently  a  flock 
of  ten  or  fifteen  cedar  birds  shot  past  through  the 
trees  as  though  bound  for  the  Mississippi.  The 
oaks  seemed  to  be  a  good  point  of  observation 
even  if  the  interesting  strangers  did  not  alight. 
A  rushing  and  rustling  of  wings,  and  a  queer 
quacking  call  marked  the  swift  passage  of  a 
duck.  Instead  of  going  by,  this  visitor  dropped 
into  the  reedy  pool  in  front  of  me.  I  could  see 
a  part  of  the  pond,  the  rest  was  screened  by 
button -ball  bushes.  Long  minutes  passed. 
Should  I  move,  creep  up  to  the  pond,  or  around 
the  kame  to  its  further  slope  ?  Something  moved 
on  the  water  beyond  the  bushes.  A  dark  form 
—  two  dark  forms  —  were  winding  in  and  out 
among  the  stems  and  coming  towards  me. 

I  raised  my  glass  to  my  eyes  and  kept  it  there 
without  a  motion  during  what  followed.  Two 
ducks,  one  following  the  -other,  were  coming 
slowly  through  the  bushes  which  grew  in  the 
water  at  the  end  of  the  pond.  From  the 
bushes  a  thread  of  water  wound  in  and  out 
among  the  grass  tussocks  and  passed  under  the 
wall  within  twenty  short  paces  of  me.  The  ducks 
entered  this  little  brook  ;  the  sunlight  fell  directly 
upon  them.  They  were  wood  ducks,  the  most 
gorgeous  of  our  waterfowl.  Every  feather  shone 


128         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

in  the  strong  light.  As  they  came  on  down 
the  stream  towards  me  they  saw  me  ;  their  bright 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  me.  If  I  moved  ever  so 
little  they  would  be  off.  I  felt  frozen,  hypno- 
tized, by  their  steady  stare.  The  female  was 
handsome  enough,  but  the  drake  was  equal  to  a 
Hindu  maharajah  in  his  splendor.  His  breast 
was  chestnut,  his  head  lustrous  green  and  violet, 
his  throat  white,  his  back  coppery  black  and 
brown  with  purple  and  green  lights  playing  over 
it,  his  glittering  eye  was  red.  All  these  colors, 
gleaming  in  the  sunlight  at  once,  without  so  much 
as  a  spear  of  grass  to  hide  them,  were  dazzling. 
The  birds  did  not  seem  real.  I  longed  to  call 
some  one  to  see  them,  to  enjoy  them  with  me. 
They  slid  noiselessly  through  their  narrow  chan- 
nel to  the  wall,  and  there  the  bushes  hid  them. 
Two  or  three  minutes  passed  ;  there  was  no  sign, 
no  sound.  I  rose  and  scanned  the  meadow  for 
them,  but  they  had  vanished  ;  and  during  the 
remainder  of  my  hour  they  did  not  reappear. 
Twice  afterwards  on  other  days  I  saw  them,  but 
under  no  such  favoring  circumstances. 

From  the  Oaks  I  walked  most  of  the  way  back 
to  Cambridge,  seeing  and  hearing  great  numbers 
of  birds.  Bluebirds  were  conspicuously  com- 
mon ;  several  more  kingfishers  flew  over ;  flickers 
were  so  numerous  that  I  felt  sure  they  must  be 
migrating  in  force.  Near  Payson  Park  another 


WOOD  DUCKS  AND  BLOOD  ROOT.  127 

sparrow  hawk  sailed  by  me.  There  are  known  to 
be  four  pairs  of  these  beautiful  birds  breeding 
within  a  few  miles  of  Cambridge  this  spring. 
If  the  men  hired  by  the  Boston  taxidermists  to 
slaughter  birds  to  keep  them  supplied  with  at- 
tractive material  for  "  the  trade  "  do  not  kill 
these  exquisite  little  falcons,  the  species  may 
soon  become  comparatively  common  in  eastern 
Massachusetts.  It  is  one  of  the  most  useful 
and  friendly  to  man  of  our  songless  birds. 

Not  far  from  Payson  Park  in  Belmont,  and  to 
the  northwest  of  Fresh  Pond,  is  what  is  sometimes 
called  Summer  House  Hill.  I  reached  this  little 
eminence,  which  is  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet 
above  tide  water,  at  about  nine  o'clock,  and  gained 
from  it  one  of  those  pleasing  half  far-away,  half 
near-by  views  which  only  small  hills  can  give. 
The  near-by  was  a  mingling  of  orchards  alive 
with  birds  and  carpeted  with  new  grass  al- 
ready several  inches  long ;  the  Concord  turn- 
pike and  the  brickyards  and  marshes  beyond  it ; 
Fresh  Pond  with  its  graceful  curving  shore, 
drives,  groves,  and  odd  old  ice-houses ;  Mt. 
Auburn,  the  sky-roofed  Westminster  of  New 
England  ;  Payson  Park  with  its  grand  old  trees 
and  broad  lawns  ;  and  Belmont,  the  picturesque 
town  of  terraces  and  hillside  villas.  The  far-away 
was  Arlington  and  its  wooded  heights ;  Winches- 
ter with  its  church  spires ;  Medford  and  the  Fells 


128         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

flanking  the  great  Boston  basin  on  its  north ; 
and  the  basin  itself  crowded  with  the  tangled 
streets  and  bristling  chimneys  of  half  a  dozen 
sister  cities.  The  view  on  that  morning  was 
interesting  for  a  special  reason  ;  it  presented  a 
sudden  change  in  the  coloring  of  the  whole  face 
of  the  laud.  A  few  days  earlier,  grays,  browns, 
and  delicate  yellows  had  prevailed.  These  were 
forgotten,  swept  away  by  a  flood  of  green  and 
crimson.  The  green  of  the  meadows,  roadsides, 
and  upland  hayfields  was  so  vivid  that  all  under- 
lying tints  were  obliterated.  The  willows, 
which  for  weeks  had  been  the  most  conspicuous 
color-spots  in  every  view,  had  developed  leaves 
strong  enough  in  color  to  cancel  the  golden  and 
coppery  tones  of  their  stems  and  merge  them 
in  the  greens  of  grassland  and  meadow.  The 
maples  from  gray  and  mist-like  softness  had  with 
their  red  blossoms  come  forward  as  the  most  pro- 
nounced color-masses  in  the  landscape.  Around 
Fresh  Pond  and  in  the  maple  swamps  of  the 
Alewife  Brook  marshes  this  gorgeous  crimson 
coloring  made  the  maples  as  conspicuous  as  in 
autumn.  The  first  few  days  in  April  the  greater 
part  of  Massachusetts  was  white  with  snow. 
Such  coloring  as  this,  coming  as  a  quick  contrast 
to  winter  tints,  appeals  most  earnestly  to  the  eye, 
and  leaves  a  deep  impression  on  the  memory. 
It  is  one  of  the  potent  elements  of  spring,  and 


WOOD  DUCKS  AND  BLOODROOT.  129 

serves  to  attract  and  impress  minds  which  might, 
without  it,  being  blind  to  the  subtler  beauties 
and  wonders  of  the  transformation,  miss  alto- 
gether the  glory  of  Nature's  maidenhood. 


A  VOYAGE  TO  HEARD'S  ISLAND. 

THE  Old  Manse  was  sound  asleep.  The  ring- 
ing of  bells  in  Concord  town,  the  rippling  laugh- 
ter of  a  purple  finch  in  the  apple-tree,  the  sharp 
"  chebec  "  of  a  least  flycatcher  by  the  barn,  even 
the  noise  we  made  in  taking  our  canoes  and 
small  traps  off  the  express  wagon,  and  carrying 
them  down  through  the  orchard  to  the  river, 
failed  to  wake  the  old  house  from  its  slumbers. 
Song  sparrows  sang  in  the  vista  of  lilacs  at  the 
western  door,  robins  ran  back  and  forth  on  the 
lawn  like  mechanical  toys  on  a  nursery  floor, 
and  redwing  blackbirds  and  their  naughty,  im- 
provident cousins  the  cow  buntings  creaked, 
squeaked,  and  whistled  on  the  willows  by  the 
Minute-Man.  He,  at  least,  was  awake.  His  eager, 
resolute  face  was  watching  down  that  eastern  path- 
way for  the  coming  of  new  perils  or  new  bless- 
ings to  the  children  of  Freedom.  We  left  the 
Manse  to  its  slumbers  and  the  statue  to  its  eter- 
nal vigil,  and  pushed  our  frail  canoes  out  upon  the 
glittering  surface  of  the  stream.  It  was  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  Friday,  April  24th. 


A  VOYAGE   TO  BEARD'S   ISLAND.  131 

A  gentle  west  wind  swung  the  catkins  on  the 
poplars,  rippled  the  soft,  short  grass  on  the  lawn, 
caressed  the  new  leaves  of  the  horse-chestnuts, 
maples,  and  willows,  which  were  timidly  unfold- 
ing under  the  unusually  encouraging  season.  The 
Musketaquid  had  fallen  more  than  a  foot  since 
our  last  cruise,  and  it  was  still  falling  fast.  A 
greater  change  had,  however,  crept  over  the  land 
and  the  air.  The  land  was  now  a  garden  full 
of  beauty.  There  was  the  beauty  of  miles  of 
velvety  grass  and  sprouting  grain ;  there  was  the 
beauty  of  shrubs  thickly  clad  in  half-unfolded 
leaves ;  and  there  was  the  beauty  of  tall  trees, 
whose  foliage  seemed  to  be  growing  as  the 
eye  rested  upon  it,  and  whose  outlines  of 
limb  and  trunk  were  being  disguised  by  gauzy 
draperies  of  green,  sure  to  become  denser  and 
fuller  day  by  day  as  the  eager  sun  looked  more 
ardently  upon  the  earth.  There  was  als®  the 
beauty  of  spring  blossoms,  the  red  of  the  maples, 
the  white  of  the  willows ;  the  yellow  of  dande- 
lions, early  buttercups,  and  potentilla;  the  white 
of  saxifrage,  everlasting,  houstonia,  and  anemone. 
The  change  in  the  air  was  twofold.  On  our 
other  voyage  it  had  brought  the  chill  of  snow 
from  the  central  parts  of  the  state ;  now  it 
brought  the  comforting  warmth  of  a  summer- 
like  day.  Before,  the  song  of  a  bird  or  of  a  flock 
of  birds  had  been  an  item  by  itself  ;  now,  the  air 


132         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

was  as  full  of  musical  undulations  as  it  was  of 
heat  waves  and  light  waves.  An  effort  was  re- 
quired, not  so  much  to  hear  a  particular  song,  as 
to  separate  it  from  the  sound  ripples  which  broke 
unceasingly  upon  the  ear.  In  the  midst  of  the 
splendor  of  the  sunset  colors,  gold  and  red  upon 
the  sky,  gold  and  red  upon  the  river,  we  urged 
our  dainty  craft  against  the  current,  bound  for 
Fairhaven  Bay. 

My  canoe  was  a  Rob  Roy,  my  friend's  a 
longer,  more  slender  one,  without  a  deck.  As 
we  paddled,  we  faced  forward,  and  each  regu- 
lated his  course  by  a  lever,  which  he  pressed 
with  his  feet,  and  which  was  connected  with  the 
rudder  by  chains  running  under  the  gunwales  of 
the  canoe.  Thanks  to  this  device,  which  is  my 
friend's,  we  were  enabled  to  use  light,  single- 
bladed  paddles  and  to  give  little  thought  to  the 
method  of  our  strokes. 

It  is  pleasant  to  look  forward  rather  than 
backward  as  one  travels  on  a  river.  There  is 
more  of  hope  in  it,  and  consequently  more  of 
joy.  lu  rowing,  one  sees  only  departing,  waning 
beauty ;  in  paddling,  the  whole  world  is  before, 
with  its  good  and  evil  inviting  choice,  its  prom- 
ises of  wonders  beyond  distant  shores,  its  ever 
enlarging  beauties,  its  swiftly  realized  dreams. 

As  our  paddles  rose  and  fell,  scattering  bright 
globules  of  water  on  the  river,  which  at  first 


A   VOYAGE  TO  BEARD'S  ISLAND.          133 

refused  to  receive  them  back  into  itself,  we  left 
Concord  behind  us  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  many  a  meadow  and  sloping  hillside, 
crowned  with  farmhouse  or  summer  cottage. 
The  town  did  not  let  us  abandon  it  suddenly. 
More  than  once,  when  I  thought  it  left  far  away 
across  a  meadow,  the  river  would  sweep  back 
to  it,  and  show  us  more  green  lawns  and  terraces, 
gay  boats  lying  on  the  grass,  elms  fruited  with 
purple  grackles  and  cowbirds,  children  at  their 
games,  purple  martins  soaring  near  their  bird 
boxes,  and  wagons  rolling  up  dust  in  the  roads. 
Before  we  were  free  from  the  town  our  river 
changed  its  name  ;  for  at  a  place  where  a  ledge 
crowned  with  great  trees  is  washed  by  the  cur- 
rent, the  north  branch  blends  its  waters  with 
the  Sudbury  to  form  the  Concord.  The  Sud- 
bury  was  our  stream,  and  but  for  one  brief 
glance  up  the  dai'k  Assabet  I  should  not  have 
known  that  Musketaquid  had  lost  a  part  of 
its  strength. 

About  seven  o'clock  our  cockleshells  came  to 
a  long  reach  of  river  looking  a  little  east  of 
south.  Meadow-grasses  rustled  over  many  acres 
on  each  side  of  us,  and  the  breeze  favored  us  at 
last.  So  we  raised  our  tiny  masts  and  spread 
our  white  sails.  That  which  followed  was  to 
physical  action  what  falling  asleep  is  to  mental 
effort.  It  was  not  rude  motion  gained  by 


134        LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

thumping  oars  against  resisting  water.  It  was 
more  like  becoming  a  part  of  the  air  and  glid- 
ing on  in  its  embrace,  silently,  swiftly,  without 
friction.  Side  by  side  our  boats  slipped  on  past 
whispering  grasses,  over  the  black  water,  under 
the  violet  sky  in  which  the  high  stars  were  now 
appearing.  Behind  us  the  dark  water  was 
broken  into  ripples.  They  held  quivering, 
bending  bits  of  color,  deep  red,  orange,  yellow, 
and  silver,  scattered  over  the  inky  blackness  of 
the  stream.  In  front  of  us  was  a  hill.  It 
seemed  very  high  in  the  gathering  gloom. 
Nearer  and  on  our  right  was  a  grove  of  lofty 
white  pines.  There  are  few  such  trees  in  this 
part  of  New  England ;  they  are  a  fragment  of 
the  primeval  woods,  full  of  wind  voices  and 
memories  of  a  lost  race  of  men,  and  a  vanishing 
race  of  birds  and  mammals.  As  we  neared  this 
grove  a  mysterious  greeting  came  to  us  from  its 
depths.  A  voice  at  once  sad,  deep,  soft,  and 
full  of  suppressed  power  seemed  to  question  us. 
My  friend  responded  in  the  stranger's  language, 
and  a  few  moments  after  a  dark  form  floated 
over  us,  its  great  wings  making  no  sound  as 
they  beat  against  the  night  air.  Then  from  the 
foot  of  Fairhaven  Hill  the  voice  called  to  us 
again ;  and  soon  the  form  passed  back  over  the 
river  to  the  tops  of  the  pines.  Behind  Fairhaven 
Hill  the  eastern  clouds  reflected  a  slowly  iucreas- 


A  VOYAGE  TO  HEARTS  ISLAND.          135 

ing  flood  of  yellow  light.  Over  the  rest  of  the 
sky  night  had  settled.  Bird  voices  were  hushed, 
but.  from  the  river  banks,  as  far  as  the  ear  could 
hear,  the  song  of  frogs  rose  and  fell  in  irregular 
rhythm.  The  air  was  chilly,  and  a  thin  layer  of 
white  mist  hurried  over  the  surface  of  the  water. 
Southward,  up  the  river  between  Fairhaven  Hill 
and  the  pine  woods,  the  water  gleamed  with 
silvery  whiteness,  reflecting  the  sky.  Its  sur- 
face narrowed  in  the  distance  between  looming, 
wooded  headlands,  and  was  finally  swallowed  up 
in  the  shadow  of  great  trees  whose  tops  made  a 
serrated  border  to  the  brightening  sky.  At  last 
the  moon's  rim  showed  through  the  trees  on 
Fairhaven  Hill,  and  the  high  pines  close  by  us 
on  the  western  shore  were  bathed  in  uncertain 
light.  From  their  tops  the  mysterious  voice 
still  questioned  us  at  intervals. 

This  pine  grove  was  our  chosen  camping 
ground,  and  the  light  of  the  moon  enabled  us  to 
select  a  landing  place  and  to  draw  our  canoes 
ashore.  Soon  the  two  boats  were  resting  upon 
hollows  in  the  pine  needles,  ready  to  serve  as 
our  cocoons  when  we  felt  the  need  of  sleep  ;  a 
bright  fire  was  blazing  near  the  edge  of  the 
water  at  a  point  where  it  offered  no  menace  to 
the  safety  of  the  grove,  and  we  were  resting  our 
weary  muscles  and  busying  our  several  senses 
with  the  moon,  cold  chicken  and  marmalade, 


136         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

the  warmth  of  the  fire,  the  aroma  of  the  pines, 
and  the  low,  shivery  remarks  of  the  ghostly  owner 
of  the  grove.  Instead  of  being  alarmed  by  our 
landing,  the  light  of  our  fire,  and  the  sound  of 
our  voices,  the  dark  phantom  of  the  pines  seemed 
to  be  attracted  by  these  unusual  interruptions. 
The  voice  grew  louder  and  more  distinct.  Its 
winged  source  came  nearer  from  tree  top  to  tree 
top,  until  it  settled  in  the  tallest,  darkest  pine 
in  the  grove,  almost  immediately  over  our 
heads.  It  was  unlike  any  other  voice  I  had  ever 
heard.  It  possessed  a  contralto  quality  ;  it  was 
laden  with  intense  emotion,  yet  it  was  calm  and 
singularly  regular  both  in  its  sounds  and  in  its 
silences.  In  spite  of  its  softness  and  the  slight 
trembling  in  its  tones,  it  suggested  power,  —  a 
power  sufficient  to  raise  a  trumpet  note  audible 
a  mile  away. 

Ten  o'clock  came  and  went,  and  we  sought  our 
cocoons.  Over  the  opening  in  my  Rob  Roy  a 
rubber  blanket  was  arranged  to  button  tightly, 
leaving  space  only  for  my  face.  Over  the  entire 
canoe,  supported  by  a  cord  run  from  a  short  niast 
aft  to  the  short  mast  near  the  bows,  was  drawn 
a  waterproof  tont  having  two  little  netting- 
covered  windows  in  its  gable  ends.  Wrapped  in 
my  wool  blanket,  tightly  buttoned  under  the 
rubber  blanket,  I  sighed,  thought  how  sleepy  I 
was,  how  well  the  canoe  sustained  my  weary 


A  VOYAGE   TO  HEARD' S  ISLAND.          137 

limbs,  how  comfortable  I  was  to  be,  and  —  in  fact, 
I  was  on  the  eve  of  sweet  slumber  when,  "  Whoo, 
hoo-hoo-hoo,  whooo,  whooo  !  "  came  from  the  tree 
just  over  me.  The  voice  restored  me  to  con- 
sciousness. I  seemed  to  see  through  my  tent 
and  the  darkness  of  the  pine  foliage  to  the 
top  of  the  tree,  where  in  the  moonlight  sat  a 
great  bird  with  staring  yellow  eyes  and  feathery 
horns,  looking  now  at  the  moon  on  her  voyage 
from  Fairhaven  westward,  and  then  at  our  smoul- 
dering fire,  or  at  me,  supine  in  my  mummy  case. 
"  Whoo,  hoo-hoo-hoo,  whooo,  whooo  !  "  came 
again,  and  its  melancholy  vibrations  set  my  nerves 
to  its  rhythm,  so  that  after  it  ceased  it  seemed 
to  continue  to  echo  in  my  mind's  ear.  Wide 
awake,  I  found  myself  measuring  the  time  until 
it  should  come  again.  "  Whoo,  hoo-hoo-hoo, 
whooo,  whooo  !  "  The  thrill  which  the  last  two 
prolonged  sighing  notes  sent  through  me  was 
wonderful.  They  seemed  to  penetrate  every 
fibre  of  my  brain  and  quiver  there  as  heated  air 
quivers  before  the  eye  at  midsummer  midday. 
I  thought  of  the  theory  that  birds'  notes  are  but 
imitations  of  sounds  which  they  hear  most  fre- 
quently, and  this  song  of  the  great  horned  owl 
above  me  seemed  akin  to  the  moaning  of  night 
winds  in  the  hollows  of  dead  trees. 

After  a  sleepless  hour  or  more  had  passed,  I 
sat  up  and  peered  out  of  the  little  window  at  the 


138        LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

head  of  my  coffin.  There  were  the  great  pine 
trunks  rising  like  roughly  carved  columns  to 
support  the  dark  roof  above.  The  moon's  rays 
came  between  them  and  fell  full  in  my  face.  I 
could  see  up  the  river,  whose  ripples  were  full  of 
bits  of  moonlight  and  black  shadows,  over  which 
hurried  shreds  of  mist.  Quiet  as  was  the  night, 
nothing  seemed  asleep.  Nature,  shamming  re- 
pose, was  moving  silently  about  on  mysterious 
errands  of  which  slumbering  man  was  not  to 
know.  The  moon  sailed  on  with  her  convoy  of 
stars  westward,  the  clouds  sailed  eastward.  The 
river  flowed  northward,  the  mists  were  moving 
southward.  Thousands  of  frogs  mingled  their 
songs  on  the  river  banks.  The  woods  were  full 
of  slight  rustlings  of  leaves,  creakings  or  snap- 
pings  of  twigs,  squeaks  which  seemed  vocal,  and 
an  undercurrent  of  sound  which  was  like  the 
hushed  breathing  of  the  earth.  Then,  as  though 
guiding  all,  came  the  weird  voice  of  the  owl  in 
its  strange  rhythm  and  its  stranger  intonation. 

Midnight  passed  and  went  on  its  long  way, 
but  still  I  did  not  sleep.  Each  time  the  owl 
spoke  I  was  listening  for  it.  Then  a  drumming 
partridge  and  the  frogs  gained  a  share  of  my 
hearing  and  thinking.  The  latter  were  leopard 
frogs,  and  their  chorus  was  pitched  on  a  low 
key.  One  of  my  friends  compares  their  music 
to  an  army  snoring  in  unison ;  another  to  a 


A  VOYAGE  TO  HEARTS  ISLAND.          139 

giant  gritting  his  teeth.  I  could  make  my  ears 
assent  to  either  comparison.  Suddenly  my  vi- 
brating nerves  told  me  that  the  song  of  the 
owl  had  changed.  I  listened,  excited.  "  Whoo, 
hoo-hoo-hoo,  whooo,  whooo ! "  No,  it  was  the 
same.  But  hark  !  from  another  tree  comes  back 
a  response,  "  Whoo,  hoo-hoo-hoo,  hoo-hoo-hoo, 
whooo  !  "  The  male  had  returned  from  a  hunt- 
ing trip,  and  the  pair  were  talking  it  over. 

Whether  it  was  the  change  and  alternation  in 
the  owl's  metre,  or  simple  exhaustion  on  my  part, 
which  at  last  gave  me  sleep  I  cannot  say,  but 
after  hearing  a  distant  deep-toned  bell  strike 
twice  I  lost  myself  in  needed  slumber. 

My  awakening  was  sudden.  I  found  myself 
leaning  on  my  elbow  listening  to  one  of  the  most 
joyous  songs  which  New  England  birds  produce. 
"Cherokee,  cherokee,  bo-peep,  bo-peep,  chrit, 
chrit,  chrit,  perucru,  perucru,  cru,  cru,  cru,  cru !  " 

Pushing  aside  tent  and  mummy  cloths  I  un- 
snarled myself  and  gained  my  feet.  The  moon 
was  nearing  her  western  harbor,  but  upon  the 
rim  of  Fairhaven  Hill  rested  the  morning  star. 
There  are  few  moments  in  life  so  full  of  happi- 
ness and  exultation  as  those  in  which  man, 
brushing  sleep  from  his  eyes,  rises  with  the  first 
bird  song  and  welcomes  into  his  soul  the  beauty 
of  the  dawn.  Some  minutes  in  a  life  seem 
doubly  charged  with  the  essence  both  of  self- 


140         LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

consciousness  and  of  perception.  That  moment 
of  awakening  was  one  of  them  to  me.  In  this 
world  or  the  next  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  recall 
the  clarion  of  that  brown  thrush,  the  pure 
beauty  of  that  star,  and  the  contour  of  hill  and 
forest,  river  and  tented  boats.  I  aroused  my 
friend,  and  we  sought  a  high,  open  pasture  be- 
hind the  pines,  where  we  noted  the  order  in 
which  bird  songs  or  calls  reached  us.  The  song 
sparrow,  the  whip-poor-will,  the  robin,  the  crow, 
the  chickadee,  the  ruby-crowned  kinglet,  the  field 
sparrow,  came  in  quick  succession,  the  last  reach- 
ing us  at  twenty  minutes  past  four.  The  partridge 
had  drummed  all  night.  If  the  owls  had  been 
silent  at  all  it  was  for  little  more  than  an  hour. 

Not  long  after  the  sun  swung  clear  of  Fair- 
haven  Hill  our  voyage  upstream  was  resumed. 
The  wind  came  from  a  bank  of  cold  gray  clouds, 
which  rose  rapidly  from  the  north  and  soon  ob- 
scured sun,  moon,  and  pale  blue  sky.  A  spring 
flowing  from  a  rugged  ledge  filled  our  jug  with 
ice-cold  water.  On  the  ledge,  columbine  was  in 
full  bloom,  a  fact  not  often  recorded  for  the  25th 
of  April.  Beyond,  lay  Fairhaven  Bay,  a  beauti- 
ful widening  of  the  river  framed  in  wooded  hills. 
Upon  the  crest  of  one  of  these  hills  stood  three 
pines,  and  into  the  middle  one  a  hawk  descended 
upon  its  nest.  Beyond  the  bay  came  a  belt  of 
meadow  shore  where  the  wind  had  a  wide  sweep. 


A  VOYAGE  TO  BEARD'S  ISLAND.          141 

Here  we  came  upon  a  wounded  sheldrake,  whose 
quick  and  clever  diving  and  desperate  beatings 
along  the  tops  of  the  waves  enabled  him  to  es- 
cape us.  In  the  river's  wandering  across  this 
meadow  it  led  us  close  to  a  charming  home  spot. 
A  high  hill,  broken  on  the  river  side  into  many 
gray  ledges,  overhung  a  narrow,  bright  green 
field.  This  was  the  home  acre.  A  house  sur- 
rounded by  shrubbery,  a  barn  blessed  with 
calves,  hens,  broods  of  young  chickens,  a  kitchen 
garden  newly  planted,  an  orchard  with  swelling 
flower  buds,  a  bridge  with  many  piers  and  a 
bright  red  boat  moored  near  it,  —  all  these  things 
lay  cosily  under  the  ledges.  Swallows  flew 
merrily  back  and  forth  between  meadow  and 
barnyard,  and  a  bluebird  sang  sweet  music  in  an 
apple-tree.  We  paused  under  the  bridge  and 
took  account  of  the  weather.  The  wind  was 
rough  and  came  in  gusts  ;  the  sky  was  now  com- 
pletely overcast,  and  in  the  north  ugly  clouds 
seemed  pressing  forward  up  the  river.  Oilskin 
coats  and  rubber  covers  for  the  tops  of  the  ca- 
noes were  brought  into  play,  and  then  away  we 
sped  under  reefed  sails  across  the  next  mile  of 
river.  Rain,  hail,  and  snow  all  pelted  us,  and 
helped  the  wind  lash  the  river  into  foam. 

An  hour  before  noon  we  landed  at  a  hillside 
covered  with  pines  and  cedars,  and  sought  shel- 
ter in  the  woods  for  dinner  and  a  fire.  The  hill 


142         LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

sloped  towards  the  south  and  commanded  a  view 
of  a  wide  bend  in  the  river,  and  beyond  it  the 
beginning  of  the  great  Sudbury  meadows,  now 
under  water  and  more  like  a  shallow  lake  than  a 
stream.  Kept  dry  by  the  pines  and  in  a  glow  by 
a  fire  of  dry  twigs  and  pine  needles,  we  watched 
the  strange  mingling  of  seasons  before  us.  An 
angry  sky  blotched  with  luminous  white  and 
leaden  gray ;  a  river  flowing  against  the  storm, 
covered  with  white  caps,  foam,  and  the  paths  of 
sudden  "  flaws  ; "  beyond,  flat  grass  land  and  a 
birch  wood  forming  a  background  for  the  sway- 
ing columns  of  snowflakes,  which  were  whirled  up 
the  stream,  across  the  drenched  fields  and  out  of 
sight  over  the  meadows,  —  such  was  the  wintry 
side  of  the  picture.  Nearer,  was  a  grassy  slope 
of  the  tenderest  green  flecked  with  everlasting, 
saxifrage,  anemones,  small  purple  violets  of  at 
least  two  kinds,  white  violets,  innocents,  as  I  love 
to  call  houstonia,  early  buttercups,  potentilla,  and 
dandelions.  In  the  pines  or  within  earshot  were 
robins,  hermit  thrushes,  pine  warblers,  a  parula 
warbler,  chipping  sparrows,  song  sparrows,  and 
field  sparrows.  Such  was  the  spring-like  side  of 
the  picture.  Squall  after  squall  passed,  but  the 
warblers  sang  on,  and  the  swallows  skimmed  the 
river  and  seemed  as  gay  among  snowflakes  as 
among  sunbeams. 

As  the  water  on  the  Sudbury  meadows  was  so 


A  VOYAGE   TO  BEARD'S  ISLAND.  143 

shallow  that  more  was  to  be  feared  from  ground- 
ing than  from  tipping  over,  we  hoisted  sail  and 
let  the  storm  winds  do  their  wildest  with  us. 
The  canoes  careened,  the  sheets  tugged  until  our 
hands  ached  holding  them,  and  off  we  flew  like 
parts  of  the  driving  scud,  up  the  long  miles  of 
meadow.  Here  and  there  bushes,  or  tussocks 
of  swamp  grass,  reared  their  heads  above  the 
water  and  warned  us  from  the  shallows,  but  in 
the  main  the  course  was  clear,  and  we  passed 
over  it  as  swiftly  as  the  storm  itself. 

About  three  o'clock  the  sun  came  out,  and  we 
found  ourselves  near  Wayland  village.  Shel- 
tered from  the  wind  by  a  railway  embank- 
ment, we  clung  to  the  edge  of  a  half -submerge:! 
meadow,  to  watch  the  flight  of  swallows  after 
the  storm.  Perhaps  we  saw  a  thousand  swal- 
lows that  day,  or  perhaps  my  friend's  usually 
conservative  mind  was  too  excited  to  estimate 
fairly.  There  were  enough  at  all  events  to 
cover  every  rod  of  meadow  with  the  poetry  of 
geometry,  drawn  again  and  again  in  living  lines 
of  lustrous  blue  and  black,  warm  chestnut,  and 
gleaming  white.  The  white-bellied  swallows  out- 
numbered all  others  ten  to  one,  but  in  the  maze 
could  be  seen  barn  swallows,  bank  swallows, 
eaves  swallows,  and  now  and  then  a  purple  mar- 
tin or  a  chimney  swift.  Away  to  the  west  was 
Nobscot  Hill.  Eastward,  not  more  than  a  mile 


144         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

distant,  was  Way  land  village,  and  just  ahead 
was  the  sunny  slope  of  Heard's  Island,  our  ulti- 
ma Thule.  Nothing  short  of  another  snow-squall 
could  have  made  us  leave  the  dancing  swallows, 
but  the  squall  came,  and  we  sought  Heard's  Is- 
land and  friendly  firesides. 

After  resting  a  bit  we  put  on  all  the  warm 
clothes  we  could  muster,  and  took  a  brisk  walk 
to  Heard's  pond,  which  bounds  the  island  on  the 
southwest,  and  to  the  Wayland  elm,  the  noblest 
tree  in  Massachusetts.  The  cold  appealed  to  us 
as  strongly  as  though  February  had  come  again, 
and  we  feared  that  the  birds,  buds,  and  flowers 
would  suffer  during  the  night.  Heard's  pond 
is  a  charming  sheet  of  water,  soon  doubtless  to 
become  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  cheery  summer 
cottages.  As  for  the  Wayland  elm,  it  is  a  won- 
derful triumph  of  nature.  As  we  paced  under 
it  from  north  to  south,  its  ancient  branches 
seemed  to  extend  over  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  feet  from  one  side  of  its  lawn  to  the  other. 
Two  very  large  elms  which  stand  near  it  are 
dwarfed  by  its  royal  size.  Its  symmetry,  the  per- 
fect condition  of  its  many  branches  and  myriad 
twigs,  the  healthy  state  of  its  unscarred  bark, 
and  the  simple  dignity  of  its  position,  all  make  it 
an  ideal  tree,  —  one  which  a  savage  might  adore 
as  the  abiding  place  of  a  spirit.  That  night  the 
canoes  slept  alone  on  the  edge  of  the  cold  mead- 


A  VOYAGE  TO  BEARD'S  ISLAND.          145 

ow,  and  my  slumbers  were  presided  over,  not  by 
great  horned  owls,  but  by  time-honored  pictures 
of  Dante,  Petrarch,  Tasso,  Louis  Agassiz,  and 
Benjamin  Peirce,  and  of  Rome,  Tivoli,  Venice, 
Florence,  and  fair  Harvard. 

Sunday  dawned  cool,  clear  and  windy.  There 
had  been  no  frost.  Nature  had  been  true  to 
herself,  as  she  generally  is.  From  nine  till  six 
we  fought  our  way  homewards  against  impetuous 
winds.  No  sail  could  aid  us,  no  current  do  more 
than  mitigate  the  force  of  the  air.  The  battle 
against  the  waves  developed  a  marked  difference 
in  our  canoes.  The  moment  we  rounded  a  curve 
into  a  stretch  of  wind-swept  water  my  canoe 
shot  ahead  of  the  other  without  extra  effort  on 
my  part.  In  still  water,  and  especially  towards 
evening,  when  the  wind  died  out,  my  friend  was 
the  one  who  played  with  his  paddle,  and  I  the 
one  who  toiled.  At  two  o'clock  we  landed  at 
the  foot  of  a  bold  ledge  rising  abruptly  sixty  or 
seventy  feet  from  the  stream.  We  climbed  part 
way  to  the  summit  and  lunched,  surrounded  by 
columbine,  violets,  saxifrage  and  dozens  of  birds. 
A  pewee  complained  of  us,  and  turning  we  saw 
her  nest  on  the  face  of  the  ledge,  hidden  under  a 
projecting  shoulder  of  rock.  It  was  just  com- 
pleted, and  its  delicate  moss  trimming  made  it 
seem  part  of  the  lichen-grown  ledge  itself.  From 
the  pines  came  the  thin  voice  of  a  black-throated 


146        LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

green  warbler  saying,  "  one,  two,  three-a,  four," 
and  not  far  away  the  strong,  brave  phrases  of 
the  solitary  vireo  were  audible.  A  real  treat 
was  the  song  of  the  ruby-crowned  kinglet.  It 
reminds  me  of  a  favorite  mountain  cascade  of 
mine  deep  in  hemlock  woods,  which  has  spar- 
kling jets,  quick  twists  in  its  descending  current, 
unbroken  rushes  over  polished  rock,  and  then 
three  or  four  plunges,  ending  in  a  dark  pool 
where  trout  linger  under  the  foam.  As  we 
looked  over  the  water  a  pair  of  wood  ducks  flew 
by,  and  at  another  time  a  small  flock  of  black 
ducks.  A  kingfisher  passed  and  repassed,  sound- 
ing his  harsh  rattle,  and  a  great  blue-gray  and 
white  marsh  hawk  sailed  down  stream  along  the 
meadow. 

We  camped  that  night  eighteen  miles  from 
Heard's  Island  and  three  miles  below  the  Min- 
ute-Man. Ball's  Hill  rose  above  us,  and  Great 
Meadow,  now  half  above  water,  extended  before 
us  like  a  wide  lagoon.  The  curving  shore  was 
thickly  strewn  with  pieces  of  dry  wood  of  curi- 
ous shapes.  When  my  friend  stated  that  there 
was  a  wooden  pail  factory  on  the  Assabet  I  un- 
derstood the  origin  of  our  fuel  supply.  During 
the  last  mile  of  the  voyage,  and  while  we  were  eat- 
ing our  supper,  we  heard  a  bittern  "  pumping  " 
on  the  meadow.  At  sunrise  next  morning  two 
could  be  heard  from  the  top  of  the  hill,  one 


A  VOYAGE   TO  HEARD' S  ISLAND.          147 

up  stream  and  another  down  towards  Carlisle 
bridge.  The  syllables  "  pung-chuck  "  repeated 
three  or  four  times  give  an  idea  of  this  sound 
when  it  is  made  at  a  distance.  After  dark,  as 
we  lingered  by  our  fire,  we  heard  the  "  quauk  " 
of  a  night  heron  flying  down  stream.  I  slept  as 
well  that  night  in  my  narrow  mummy  case  as  I 
should  have  on  my  broad  spring  bed  at  home. 

To  see  a  sunrise  from  the  top  of  Ball's  Hill  on 
a  warm  still  day  in  April  is  worth  an  eighteen- 
mile  paddle.  There  were  bitterns  pumping, 
crows  cawing,  mourning  doves  cooing,  grouse 
and  woodpeckers  drumming,  blackbirds  creaking, 
kingfishers  rattling,  and  a  throng  of  thrushes, 
warblers,  and  finches  singing  in  that  early  mass 
at  St.  Ann's.  The  sun  came  up  behind  Bedford 
towers,  cast  golden  rays  upon  Great  Meadow 
and  passed  into  gray  clouds.  Although  we  ex- 
pected rain  we  spent  half  the  forenoon  coasting 
along  Carlisle  shore  and  wandering  through  the 
pine  woods.  I  found  a  snug  little  screech  owl 
in  a  hole  in  an  apple-tree  and  tried  to  induce 
him  to  come  out.  No  pounding  on  the  tree  nor 
gentle  poking  of  him  produced  any  effect.  He 
was  as  placid  as  though  made  of  the  dead  leaves 
and  decayed  wood  which  his  coloring  most  sug- 
gested. A  towhee  bunting  and  his  mate  were 
scratching  in  the  dry  leaves  by  the  river  side. 
They,  like  the  fox  sparrows,  seem  to  work  both 
feet  at  once  in  scratching.  It  was  a  proud  sight 


148         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

when  a  high-flying  osprey  plunged  downward 
through  many  a  foot  of  air  to  the  river,  and  scat- 
tered myriad  drops  as  he  struck  the  water  in  a 
vain  effort  to  grasp  a  wary  fish.  A  pair  of  red- 
shouldered  hawks  screamed  angrily  at  us  as  we 
paddled  past  their  chosen  grove.  A  bittern  flew 
up  stream  and  settled  in  a  snarl  of  rushes.  We 
marked  the  spot  and  my  friend  paddled  to  it. 
The  bird  allowed  the  bow  of  the  canoe  to  come 
within  six  or  seven  feet  of  him  before  his  confi- 
dence in  his  protective  coloring  failed  sufficiently 
to  make  him  fly.  A  spotted  sandpiper  flew  from 
shore  to  shore  ahead  of  us,  giving  his  character- 
istic whistle  as  he  sped  low  over  the  water. 
When  he  remained  for  a  moment  on  the  shore 
his  "  teetering "  seemed  to  make  his  outlines 
blend  in  the  river  ripples.  The  water  thrush, 
a  warbler  next  of  kin  to  the  ovenbird,  has  the 
teetering  habit  to  a  less  marked  degree,  and  is 
also  a  bird  whose  life  is  passed  near  the  edge  of 
waves. 

Not  long  after  midday  we  sighted  the  Minute- 
Man,  passed  under  his  wooden  bridge  and 
grounded  our  boats  on  the  Old  Manse  shore.  A 
happy  voyage  was  over.  We  had  met  fifty-seven 
kinds  of  birds  and  seen  eighteen  or  more  kinds 
of  flowers  in  bloom.  We  had  killed  nothing, 
not  even  time,  for  those  sixty-seven  hours  will 
live  as  long  as  our  memory  of  pleasant  things 
serves  us. 


A  FOREST  ANTHEM. 

THE  30th  of  April  was  a  hot  day.  I  left 
Boston  at  12.30  p.  M.,  in  a  car  marked  for  the 
White  Mountains  via  Conway  Junction.  The 
country  was  beautifully  green,  and  some  early 
fruit  trees  were  white  with  flowers.  In  the  brook 
meadows  the  marsh  marigolds  were  gleaming 
like  gold  coin,  and  now  and  then  we  passed  a 
pasture  whitened  by  houstonia.  As  we  rolled 
over  the  Ipswich  and  Rowley  marshes  the  dunes 
showed  their  ragged  ranges  against  the  eastern 
sky,  and  the  sunlight  brought  out  the  beauty 
of  their  coloring.  I  was  struck  by  the  indiffer- 
ence to  the  cars  of  many  of  the  wild  creatures 
we  passed.  A  woodchuck  trundled  his  fat  body 
slowly  over  a  sandy  field  and  scarcely  looked  at 
the  train.  Crows  often  walked  up  and  down  a 
stubble  field  within  fifty  feet  of  the  track  and 
merely  kept  one  eye  on  the  rushing,  dust-raising 
cars.  Near  Kittery  an  eagle  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  train  as  though  interested  by  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  sheep  and  dozens  of  awk- 
ward spring  lambs  fled  from  us,  and  horses  kicked 
up  their  heels  and  galloped  away  in  their  pas- 


150         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

tures,  or  shied  in  harness,  to  the  terror  of  nervous 
women.  After  passing  Wolfborough  Junction 
I  watched  for  traces  of  winter,  but  Wakefield 
and  Ossipee  were  as  green  as  Concord  and  Cam- 
bridge. Marigolds  shone  by  the  brooks,  arbu- 
tus smiled  from  the  shady  banks  along  the  cut- 
tings, maples  glowed  red  in  the  descending  rays 
of  the  sun.  The  leaves  on  birches  and  poplars 
were  well  out  and  brilliant  in  color.  Swallows 
were  skimming  over  Bearcamp  water,  and  smoke 
hung  over  the  mountains  so  that  even  Cho- 
corua's  peak  was  not  in  view  until  I  reached 
West  Ossipee  and  left  the  train. 

Half  of  the  country  between  the  Ossipee  Moun- 
tains and  Chocorua  is  a  sandy  level  covered 
with  pitch-pines  and  scrub-oaks.  It  is  a  fine 
place  for  blueberries,  fires,  and  pine  warblers  in 
summer,  for  crows,  golden  rod,  and  asters  in 
autumn,  and  for  snowdrifts  in  winter.  Now 
and  then  one  gets  a  glimpse  of  a  deer  among 
the  scrub,  and  in  winter  fox  tracks  are  always 
thick  upon  the  snow  which  lies  heavy  upon 
these  plains.  As  the  sun  sank  low  in  the  west 
the  air  became  chilly  and  the  snow  wrinkles  on 
Chocorua's  brow  seemed  more  real.  Towards 
the  east  a  tower  of  smoke  rose  into  the  sky,  and 
at  one  point  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  flames 
not  more  than  a  mile  away.  By  seven  I  was 
supping  at  a  cosy  fireside  in  Tamworth  Iron 


A  FOREST  ANTHEM.  151 

Works  village,  listening  to  tales  of  winter  hard- 
ships and  spring  sickness,  for  the  grip  had  been 
making  hearts  weary  even  in  these  fastnesses  of 
the  north.  Then  under  the  light  of  the  stars  I 
walked  on  up  the  Chocorua  River  valley  towards 
the  lakes  and  the  mountain,  at  whose  feet  my 
haven  nestled.  Lights  gleamed  and  were  lost 
in  the  valley  behind  me.  Dull  masses  of  fire- 
light shone  upon  the  smoky  sky  in  three  places 
on  the  horizon.  A  torch  flashed,  went  down, 
and  flashed  again,  marking  a  spot  where  a  fish- 
erman was  watching,  spear  in  hand,  for  suckers 
in  a  meadow  brook.  Then,  as  I  reached  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  I  saw  below  me  the  white  water 
of  the  lakes,  and  beyond,  above,  dimly  present 
in  the  smoky  heaven  as  conscience  is  present  in 
the  mind  of  man  —  Chocorua. 

The  stars  burned  near  it  like  altar  candles. 
The  smoke  of  fires  rose  around  it  like  incense, 
the  song  of  myriad  frogs  floated  softly  from  the 
lakes  below  like  the  distant  chanting  of  a  choir, 
and  the  whispering  of  the  wind  in  the  pines 
was  like  the  moving  of  many  lips  in  prayer. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  was  out  under  the 
cloudless  sky  listening  to  the  voices  of  May  day. 
Sparrows  were  in  the  majority.  Song,  field, 
chipping,  vesper,  white-throats,  and  juncos  were 
all  there,  the  white-throats  being  the  most 
numerous.  White-bellied  and  barn  swallows 


152         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

circled  around  the  cottage,  and  chimney-swifts 
dotted  the  sky  with  their  short,  sharp  notes. 
Loons  were  making  wild  clamor  on  the  lake,  the 
phoebe  note  of  the  chickadee  came  like  a  cool 
breeze  from  the  orchard,  and  up  in  the  sugar- 
maple  grove  a  pigeon  woodpecker  was  calling 
"  flick-flick-flick-flick-flick-flick "  a  great  many 
times  in  succession.  The  air  was  superlatively 
pure,  sparkling,  full  of  that  which  makes  deep 
breathing  a  pleasure.  The  great  mountain 
peak  stood  out  sharply  against  the  northern  sky, 
and  the  morning  sunbeams  came  back  dancing 
from  its  snowdrifts.  Peace  pervaded  every- 
thing, yet  a  thrill  of  life  was  trembling  in  earth 
and  air  and  water.  Spring,  real  spring  was 
present  in  that  land,  with  no  threat  of  east  wind 
to  chill  it.  In  the  woods,  beside  the  roads, 
the  arbutus  grew  in  masses.  Its  leaves  were 
flattened  to  earth,  just  as  the  snow  had  left 
them.  To  find  the  blossoms  one  had  to  run  a 
finger  down  the  stems  and  lift  up  the  shy 
flowers  to  the  light  of  day.  Their  perfume  made 
the  air  precious.  The  straw-colored  bells  of  the 
uvularia  swung  in  the  breeze.  In  the  woods 
by  the  brookside  the  painted  and  the  dark  red 
trilliums  hid  their  beauty,  but  in  every  grove, 
upon  the  sides  of  the  mountains,  and  along  the 
shores  of  the  lakes,  the  blossoms  of  the  maples 
glowed  red  in  the  sunlight. 


A  FOREST  ANTHEM.  153 

All  through  the  day  the  white-throated  spar- 
rows scratched  in  the  leaves  which  the  melting 
snows  had  left  pressed  to  the  surface  of  the 
ground.  I  estimated  that  I  saw  over  a  hundred 
of  these  busy  birds.  A  few  were  singing,  and 
their  "  pe-pe-pe-pe-peabody,  peabody,  peabody  " 
went  straight  to  the  heart  —  just  as  it  always 
does,  whether  in  spring,  summer  or  autumn.  I 
caught  one  beautiful  male  who  had  flown  through 
an  open  doorway  and  was  beating  himself 
against  the  window  pane.  Holding  him  gently 
but  firmly  in  my  closed  hand,  so  that  his  won- 
derfully marked  head  alone  was  free  to  move, 
I  stroked  his  black,  white,  and  yellow  feathers 
with  the  tip  of  my  right  forefinger.  After 
repeated  pressure  of  the  gentlest  kind  on  the 
back  of  his  beautiful  head  and  the  nape  of  his 
neck,  I  slowly  opened  my  hand  and  left  him 
perched  on  my  middle  finger.  He  looked  around 
him  but  did  not  offer  to  fly.  Again  and 
again  I  brought  my  hand  up  slowly  to  his  head 
and  caressed  him.  His  clear,  bright  eyes 
watched  me  fearlessly.  I  moved  him  gently, 
but  the  little  feet  only  clung  the  more  closely  to 
my  finger.  For  nearly  five  minutes  he  perched 
there  contentedly,  and  then,  recovering  some 
suppressed  faculty,  he  rejoined  his  friends 
among  the  dry  leaves. 

About  noon  I  visited  a  red  maple  which  I 


154         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

knew  had  been  a  favorite  sap-drinking  resort  of 
the  yellow-bellied  woodpeckers  and  their  attend- 
ant friends,  the  humming  birds.  The  woodpeck- 
ers were  at  the  tree,  but  unaccompanied  as  yet 
by  hummers.  There  was  evidence  in  the  large 
number  of  new  holes  already  cut  in  the  bark  of 
the  tree  that  the  woodpeckers  had  been  back 
from  the  south  since  about  April  20.  They 
were  busy  excavating  a  new  house  in  a  sound 
poplar  tree  near  their  maple  fountain,  and  that 
also  showed  a  week  or  more  of  thought  and  labor 
expended.  Black  and  white  creeping  warblers 
and  Nashville  warblers  were  abundant  in  the 
woods  near  by,  and  I  suspected  a  downy  wood- 
pecker of  having  selected  a  house-lot  near  the 
sapsuckers,  from  the  close  watch  which  he  kept 
on  me  while  I  was  in  the  neighborhood.  Dur- 
ing the  half  hour  which  I  spent  watching  the 
yellow-bellied  woodpeckers  drinking  the  flowing 
sap  on  the  maple  and  digging  diligently  at  their 
hole  in  the  poplar,  I  heard  an  unbroken  cawing 
of  crows  at  a  distance.  At  last  the  uproar  was 
so  great  that  I  went  to  seek  an  explanation  of  it. 
Well  hidden  on  the  crest  of  a  kame,  I  looked 
across  a  narrow  ravine  into  the  edge  of  a  hang- 
ing wood  of  old  beeches  and  yellow  birches. 
Sixteen  crows  were  in  these  trees,  gathered  with- 
in a  few  yards  of  each  other.  They  were  all  caw- 
ing at  once,  and  shaking  their  heads,  flapping 


A  FOREST  ANTHEM.  155 

their  wings  and  hopping  back  and  forth  from 
branch  to  branch.  The  centre  of  attraction 
seemed  to  be  an  idea,  not  carrion  or  an  owl.  I 
tested  this  by  hooting  like  a  barred  owl.  In- 
stantly sixteen  pairs  of  wings  brought  sixteen 
excited  birds  across  the  ravine  in  search  of  hated 
Strix,  but  I  lay  low  under  a  hemlock  and  the 
crows  returned  to  their  rendezvous  and  their 
clamorous  debate.  Several  times  during  the 
afternoon  faint  echoes  of  their  oratory  reached 
me  at  my  house  half  a  mile  away. 

At  sunset  I  walked  to  the  rustic  bridge  be- 
tween the  lakes  and  let  the  wonderful  beauty  of 
the  scene  flow  in  and  fill  every  corner  of  my  be- 
ing. Against  the  northern  sky  rose  Chocorua, 
Paugus,  Passaconaway  and  Whiteface,  four  con- 
nected mountains,  each  beautiful,  but  all  differ- 
ing one  from  another.  Chocorua  011  the  east, 
and  due  north  of  the  lakes,  sustains  a  horn  of 
naked  rock  upon  shoulders  of  converging  wooded 
ridges.  Paugus,  heavily  wooded,  yet  with  many 
ledge  faces  and  scars  showing  light  among  its 
hemlocks,  is  a  mountain  of  curves  and  wrinkles, 
having  no  one  definite  summit,  but  many  fire 
and  wind  swept  domes.  Passaconaway  is  an  im- 
mense spruce-covered  pyramid,  pathless  and  for- 
bidding. Whiteface,  at  the  west,  is  a  shoulder 
of  rock  4,000  feet  high,  draped  in  forest  except 
where  an  avalanche  has  rent  its  covering"  and 


156         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING   KNOW. 

left  bare  its  substance.  All  of  these  peaks 
rested  upon  a  sky  of  gold  flecked  with  crimson. 
All  of  them  were  repeated  in  the  placid  lake, 
which  also  copied  the  glory  of  the  sky  and  of 
the  descending  sun.  To  the  east  of  the  lake  a 
forest  of  ancient  pines  extends  from  the  shore 
part  way  up  a  ridge.  Above  the  pines  the 
ridge  is  covered  with  young  birches,  poplars 
and  maples.  The  tender  foliage  of  these  trees, 
bathed  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  formed  a 
glowing  veil  of  color.  The  most  delicate  greens 
showed  where  young  leaves  were  unrolling  on 
poplars  and  birches,  soft  reds  covered  the  maples, 
and  the  silvery  white  perpendicular  lines  of  the 
birch  stems  formed  a  thousand  graceful  columns 
for  the  support  of  the  light  masses  of  color  which 
clung  to  them.  That  the  sky  behind  this  gay 
fresco  of  the  spring  was  pure  pale  blue  only 
added  to  its  loveliness.  Lake,  mountains,  woods, 
sky  gave  joy  to  the  eye  and  peace  to  the  heart. 
Watching  them  I  said :  "  Had  they  but  a  voice, 
how  eloquent  it  would  be  of  praise,  how  full  of 
courage  and  hope.  The  lake  is  pure  and  deep, 
the  mountains  strong  and  high,  the  woods  hope- 
ful and  kind,  the  sky  infinite  and  full  of  mys- 
tery." Then  there  came  from  the  midst  of  the 
dark  pines  nearest  the  shore  a  vojce,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  no  other  voice  in  all  that  wild 
New  Hampshire  valley  could  have  come  so  near 


A  FOREST  ANTHEM.  157 

expressing  the  praise,  hope,  and  beauty  of  that 
spot  as  the  song  which  floated  softly  out  from 
the  shadows.  Those  who  from  childhood  have 
known  the  song  of  the  hermit  thrush,  and  had  it 
woven  into  the  very  fibres  of  their  hearts,  will 
know  how  I  was  thrilled  by  the  voice  of  that 
hermit  thrush,  singing  on  May-day  evening  at 
the  foot  of  Chocorua,  while  snow  still  gleamed 
on  the  mountain  summits. 

Strolling  up  the  road  south  of  the  lakes  I  sud- 
denly heard  the  nasal  call  of  a  woodcock  coming 
from  a  dry  and  sloping  field  facing  the  sunset. 
Soon  lie  rose,  and  the  sound,  like  that  of  a  sing- 
ing reed,  came  through  the  air.  I  looked  up  and 
presently  saw  the  bird  circling  irregularly  in 
the  upper  air,  his  wings  beating  rapidly.  Jump- 
ing the  wall  I  hurried  to  the  spot  from  which  he 
had  risen.  No  sooner  had  I  crouched  among 
the  bushes  than  the  water-whistle  notes  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  then  there  was  a  great 
rushing  of  swift  wings  and  the  bird  alit  within 
a  few  paces  of  me.  He  immediately  began  mak- 
ing a  soft  and  odd  note  as  a  substitute  for  his 
"  'n-yah !  "  I  had  heard  it  described  by  the  syl- 
lables "  puttie,"  but  as  it  reached  me,  it  lacked 
the  definiteness  and  disjunctive  quality  of  those 
sounds.  That  the  bird  saw  me  I  did  not  doubt 
for  a  moment.  He  faced  me,  and  in  the  dim 
light  I  seemed  to  feel  his  close  set  eyes  fixed 


158         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

upon  me.  I  could  not  see  that  he  moved  head 
or  wings  in  making  his  inquiring  note.  After 
a  shorter  rest  than  usual  he  rose  westward  in  a 
long  diagonal  over  the  bushes  and  began  his  cir- 
cling. The  next  time  he  came  down  he  was  a 
hundred  feet  distant,  and  began  at  once  the 
nasal  call.  In  all  he  made  ten  or  eleven  as- 
cents, and  in  coming  down  avoided  me,  although 
I  changed  my  ground  each  time  he  rose  and 
tried  hard  to  get  near  him  again.  He  finally 
moved  to  another  field,  where  he  was  circling  at 
half  past  seven,  when  I  left  the  hill. 

Early  next  morning  when  I  returned  to  the 
city  my  eyes  were  full  of  visions  of  beautiful 
mountain  scenery,  and  my  ears  rang  with  the 
mocking  laughter  of  loons  and  the  sweet  song 
of  the  hermit  thrush. 


THE   BITTERN'S    LOVE   SONG. 

ON  Saturday,  May  9,  spring  had  the  sulks. 
In  the  afternoon  a  bitterly  cold  east  wind  de- 
pressed birds,  discouraged  flowers,  turned  the 
sky  gray,  and  left  the  sun  looking  like  a  red 
wafer.  So  dim  was  it  that  at  four  o'clock  I 
turned  my  opera  glass  on  it  and  scanned  it  as 
though  it  were  only  the  moon.  If  a  May  east 
wind  has  this  chilling  effect  upon  the  sun,  what 
wonder  that  its  blast  makes  poor  mortals  miser- 
able! 

The  sun  had  a  black  spot  on  his  face.  It 
looked  large  enough  to  be  Mercury  or  Venus 
taking  a  transit  on  the  sly. 

I  went  by  an  afternoon  train  to  Waverley  and 
walked  thence  to  Rock  Meadow  on  Beaver  Brook. 
Maps  of  recent  date  call  this  brook  "  Clematis 
Brook,"  a  pretty  name,  no  doubt,  but  one  never 
approved  by  the  General  Court.  It  was  at  the 
foot  of  Rock  Meadow  that  the  beavers  made  their 
dam,  lived,  died,  and  passed  into  history.  Surely 
the  branch  of  the  brook  where  the  beavers  lived 
should  .be  called  Beaver  Brook,  rather  than  the 
branch  where  beavers  never  lived  and  never  could 


160         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

have  lived,  owing  to  the  lack  of  a  good  place  for 
their  dam.  Moreover,  the  "  Clematis  Brook  "  of 
the  railway  guide  and  the  real  estate  office  is  the 
Beaver  Brook  sung  of  by  a  writer  whose  know- 
ledge of  Cambridge  and  its  surroundings  has 
never  been  challenged.  Here  is  his  description 
of  the  old  mill  which  once  stood  at  the  cascade 
just  above  the  Waverley  oaks :  — 

Climbing  the  loose-piled  wall  that  hems 
The  road  along  the  mill  pond's  brink, 

From  'neath  the  arching  barberry  stems, 
My  footstep  scares  the  shy  chewink. 

Beneath  the  bony  buttonwood 

The  mill's  red  door  lets  forth  the  din ; 

The  whitened  miller,  dust-imbued, 
Flits  past  the  square  of  dark  within. 

No  mountain  torrent's  strength  is  here  ; 

Sweet  Beaver,  child  of  forest  still, 
Heaps  its  small  pitcher  to  the  ear 

And  gently  waits  the  miller's  will. 

In  a  note  written  June  16,  1891,  Mr.  Lowell 
says  :  "  You  are  right.  The  brook  which  was 
down  by  the  great  oaks  was  certainly  called 
'  Beaver '  when  I  first  knew  it  more  than  fifty 
years  ago.  The  scene  of  my  poem  was  the  little 
millpond,  somewhat  higher  up  towards  the  north, 
below  which  was  a  waterfall  in  whose  company 
I  often  passed  the  day." 

The  old  mill  and  its  miller  have  long  since 


THE  BITTERN'S  LOVE  SONG.  161 

been  swept  away  by  the  currents  of  Beaver 
Brook  and  of  that  greater  stream  called  Life. 
The  millstone  lies  below  the  dam,  with  moss,  not 
flour,  on  its  cheek.  Clematis  twines  itself  over 
the  ruin  and  seeks  even  to  twine  its  name  over 
the  name  hallowed  by  time  and  song. 

The  willows  along  Concord  turnpike  where 
that  venerable  causeway  crosses  Rock  Meadow 
are  wonderful  places  for  birds.  Even  on  this 
bleak,  discouraged  afternoon  I  saw  over  thirty 
species,  including  eight  kinds  of  warblers.  One 
of  them  was  the  black-throated  blue  warbler, 
dark,  dignified  and  exclusive.  Above  he  is 
slaty-blue ;  below,  white.  His  throat,  chin  and 
face  are  jet  black.  On  each  wing  he  carries  a 
triangular  white  spot,  which  marks  him  as  far 
as  the  eye  can  distinguish  his  dainty  form.  His 
wife  dresses  in  green  and  is  one  of  the  "  wonder 
birds"  to  young  collectors,  but  she  may  be  iden- 
tified by  the  white  spot  on  her  wing.  Another 
warbler  met  for  the  first  time  this  season  was 
the  chestnut-sided.  His  head 'is  yellow  on  top, 
his  back  is  dark,  his  under  parts  white.  His  eye 
is  in  a  black  patch,  and  running  from  it  down 
his  side  is  a  chestnut  streak,  or  series  of  streaks, 
often  very  distinct.  I  once  found  a  nest  of  a 
chestnut-sided  warbler,  in  which  young  birds 
were  nearly  ready  to  fly,  placed  in  the  crotch  of 
a  brake,  and  having  no  other  support.  Th« 


162         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

brakes  grew  thickly  over  more  than  an  acre  of 
sparse  woodland,  and  this  nest  bore  the  same 
relation  to  the  miniature  forest  that  an  osprey's 
ponderous  structure  does  to  stunted  woods  by 
the  seashore. 

Another  bird  which  I  was  pleased  to  see  was 
the  kingbird.  Three  chilly  individuals  of  this 
pugnacious  species  sat  close  together  on  a  willow 
limb,  now  and  then  one  of  them  flying  up  with 
a  harsh  chatter  to  catch  an  insect  on  the  wing. 
While  watching  these  kingbirds  I  fancied  that 
I  heard  the  sound  of  a  bittern  "  pumping."  It 
was  just  six  o'clock,  and  the  sound  seemed  far 
away,  but  I  scanned  the  meadow  carefully 
through  a  gap  in  the  willows.  About  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  road  was  a  pile  of  weathered 
meadow  hay,  containing  perhaps  two  or  three 
pitchforks-full.  On  this  stood  a  bittern.  His 
coloring  harmonized  with  it  so  well  that  at  first 
I  mistook  him  for  a  bundle  of  it  poked  up 
against  a  stake.  I  watched  him  for  nearly  ten 
minutes,  part  o£  the  time  from  the  road,  later 
from  behind  a  bunch  of  bushes  fifty  feet  nearer 
to  him.  Four  times  during  this  period  he  made 
his  singular  call.  His  body  seemed  to  be  carried 
about  at  the  angle  of  a  turkey's.  His  neck  was 
much  curved.  Suddenly  the  lower  part  of  the 
curve  was  agitated  in  a  way  to  suggest  retch- 
ing, and  a  hint  of  the  sound  to  come  later  be- 


THE  BITTERN'S  LOVE  SONG.  163 

came  faintly  audible.  Then  the  agitation,  which 
became  much  more  violent,  affected  the  upper 
throat,  neck  and  head,  the  head  being  thrown 
violently  upward  and  the  white  upon  the  throat 
showing  like  a  flash  of  light  every  time  the  spas- 
modic fling  of  the  neck  was  repeated.  The 
sound  at  that  short  interval  was  different  in 
quality  from  the  bittern's  note  carried  to  a  dis- 
tance. I  fancied  that  it  suggested  the  choking 
and  gurgling  of  a  bottle  from  which  liquid  is  be- 
ing poured,  the  bottle  during  the  process  being 
held  inside  an  empty  hogshead.  In  trying  to 
approach  the  bird  more  closely  I  alarmed  him, 
and  he  slunk  off  into  the  high  meadow  grass 
beyond  the  haycock.  At  a  distance  the  sound 
seemed  like  two  words,  "  pung  chuck,"  but  near 
by  there  seemed  to  be  a  third  syllable ;  and  sev- 
eral minor  sounds,  inaudible  at  a  distance,  were 
made  while  the  bird  was  getting  up  steam.  It 
seemed  to  me  at  the  time,  knowing  nothing  of 
the  nature  of  the  process,  that  the  bird  produced 
the  sound  by  a  mechanical  use  of  a  column  of 
air  extending  from  its  open  mouth  to  its  stom- 
ach. Perhaps  whooping  cough  is  perennial  in 
the  bittern  family. 

In  this  meadow  the  marsh  marigolds  were 
abundant,  but  on  seeking  to  gather  a  bunch  I 
felt  the  first  sorrow  of  the  year.  The  flowers 
were  faded,  their  golden  petals  were  stained  and 


164         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

partly  fallen,  their  beauty  had  departed.  So 
soon !  Spring,  scarcely  sure  of  its  standing 
as  a  season,  is  marked  with  the  first  scars  of 
death.  Not  far  away  I  saw  a  dandelion  gone  to 
seed.  Truly  if  the  winter  is  tempered  by  many 
a  suggestion  of  the  renewal  of  life,  the  spring  is 
branded  with  many  a  reminder  of  the  coming  of 
death.  Life  and  death ;  what  are  they  but  the 
swinging  of  a  pendulum,  —  the  one  as  sure  to 
succeed  the  other  as  the  other  is  certain  to  give 
place  to  the  one.  Each,  while  it  lasts,  contains 
an  ever  increasing  germ  of  the  other.  Neither 
can  be  final  so  long  as  law  exists. 


WARBLER    SUNDAY. 

I  FULLY  intended  to  climb  Nobscot  Hill  on 
Sunday,  May  10th,  but  when  I  reached  the 
Massachusetts  Central  Railway  Station  in  North 
Cambridge,  I  found  that  there  were  no  Sunday 
trains,  my  apparently  straightforward  time-table 
to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  Blessing  that 
railway,  as  I  had  frequently  blessed  it  before,  I 
hurried  back  to  Porter's  Station  and  took  a 
train  on  the  Fitchburg.  Just  where  I  was  to 
leave  that  train  I  was  uncertain.  It  was  my  hope 
that  the  conductor,  or  the  brakeman,  could  tell 
me  which  station  was  nearest  to  Nobscot  Hill. 
So  I  went  to  South  Acton  and  changed  to  a 
train  for  Marlborough.  Neither  conductor  nor 
brakeman  had  ever  heard  of  Nobscot  Hill,  and 
said  there  were  so  many  hills  I  could  get  out 
almost  anywhere  and  find  what  I  wanted.  As 
no  impressive  hill  could  be  seen  from  the  car 
windows,  I  finally  left  the  train  at  a  place  called 
Rockbottom.  A  merciless  red  sun  beat  down 
upon  the  little  village.  Scarcely  a  breath  of  air 
was  stirring.  The  loiterers  around  the  station 
were  Irish  mill  operatives  who  knew  nothing 


166         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

and  seemed  to  care  nothing  about  the  natural 
surroundings  of  their  home.  The  only  one  who 
showed  even  kindly  curiosity  felt  sure  that 
Honeypot  Hill  was  what  I  meant,  and  pointed 
out  a  shadeless  gravel  bubble  just  across  the 
Assabet.  Finding  an  old  resident  I  learned 
that  Nobscot  Hill  was  six  or  seven  miles  away 
in  Sudbury.  '  Could  I  hire  a  horse  ?  No,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  secure  one. 

Left  to  the  treeless  fields  of  Rockbottom,  the 
meadows  of  the  listless  Assabet  and  the  allure- 
ments of  Honeypot  Hill,  I  felt  something  akin 
to  despair  gnawing  at  my  temper.  I  could  not 
even  go  home,  for  the  next  train  did  not  start 
for  the  city  until  six  P.  M.  The  heat  was  worthy 
of  July,  but  in  spite  of  it  I  chose  the  railway 
embankment  as  a  short  cut  across  the  Assabet 
and  its  meadows  to  the  only  piece  of  woods  in 
sight.  Dressed  as  warmly  as  on  my  January 
walks,  for  the  wind  had  been  east  and  the  sky 
cold  when  I  left  Cambridge,  I  strolled  down  the 
half-mile  of  track,  enjoying  Nature  as  an  Esqui- 
maux might  enjoy  the  Sahara.  The  sun's  light 
caught  in  the  ripples  of  the  Assabet,  and  each 
reflection  seemed  a  flame.  An  oriole  sang  from 
the  midst  of  a  snowy  pinnacle  of  pear  blossoms, 
and  his  plumage  seemed  to  burn  in  its  midst. 
Two  tiny  redstarts  chased  each  other  in  irregu- 
lar circles  above  the  bushes,  and  as  I  glanced  at 


WARBLER  SUNDAY.  167 

them  fire  seemed  devouring  their  expanded  tails 
and  wings.  Down  in  the  alders  by  the  river- 
side a  blackbird  called  out,  "  Cong-ka-ree  — 
for  I  see  thee,"  and  then  he  hovered  over  the 
marsh  grass  till  red  -  hot  spots  appeared  on 
his  shoulders.  Fortunately  for  eyes  and  brain 
the  pine  woods  were  gained  at  last,  and  I 
squirmed  under  a  barbed  wire  fence  and  took 
refuge  in  their  soothing  shade. 

Lying  there  I  reflected,  and  my  conclusion 
was  that  it  was  a  better  day  to  keep  quiet  under 
the  pines  by  Assabet  water  than  to  climb  the 
slopes  of  Nobscot  Hill.  The  hot  air  trembled 
with  the  songs  of  birds,  and  wandering  songsters 
passed  under  or  over  the  pines,  sometimes  paus- 
ing in  their  branches.  The  noisy  calls  and  only 
half -musical  notes  of  the  robin  rang  out  again 
and  again.  A  veery  or  Wilson's  thrush  com- 
plained of  my  intrusion.  He  reminded  me  that 
his  cousins,  the  hermits,  had  gone  north  before 
this,  and  were  even  then  singing  their  hymns 
in  the  cloisters  of  the  hemlock  forests.  Over  the 
river  a  brown  thrush  was  pouring  out  his  rol- 
licking song,  and  in  a  ditch  by  the  railway  track 
a  catbird  sat  among  briers  and  flung  out  alter- 
nating bits  of  music  and  spiteful  complaint. 
One  bluebird  sat  on  the  telegraph  wire,  and 
another  on  an  apple-tree  at  the  foot  of  Honeypot 
Hill.  First  one  and  then  the  other  murmured 


168         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

a  comment  or  a  word  of  love.  If  it  was  a  com- 
ment it  was  full  of  happy  content ;  if  a  word  of 
love  it  must  have  sounded  very  sweet  to  its  mate. 
Back  and  forth  over  the  Assabet  and  its  mead, 
ows  passed  the  white-bellied  swallows.  The 
sunlight  found  favor  in  the  blue  lustre  of  their 
backs,  and  as  they  rose  and  fell,  turned  left  or 
turned  right,  the  immaculate  whiteness  of  their 
under  plumage  also  responded,  flashing  to  the 
touch  of  light.  They  are  my  favorites  among 
the  swallows.  The  martins  are  dark  and 
strong,  the  bank  swallows  small  and  lacking  in 
individuality  ;  the  eaves  swallows  irregularly 
distributed  and  petulant,  the  barn  swallows  less 
graceful  in  flight  and  less  perfect  in  form.  As 
for  the  swifts  they  are  not  swallows,  and  if  they 
were,  they  seem  to  be  only  animated  forms  of 
soot  possessed  of  the  power  of  flying  through 
space  with  incredible  speed,  and  of  steering  them- 
selves without  tails. 

The  bushes  and  grasses  in  and  upon  the 
banks  of  the  As"sabet  were  alive  with  red- 
wing blackbirds.  The  males,  gay  in  plumage, 
noisy  and  restless,  seemed  to  pervade  the 
meadows.  The  females,  smaller,  sober  in 
dress  and  more  chary  of  speech,  flitted  back 
and  forth  in  everlasting  bustle.  I  saw  no  bobo- 
links. Occasionally  the  plaintive  call  of  a 
meadow  starling  blended  with  the  blackbird 


WARBLER  SUNDAY.       .  169 

clamor,  and  at  brief  intervals  the  cheerful  dis- 
cord of  the  Baltimore  oriole  joined  the  din. 
Within  the  grove  there  was  a  lesser  circle  of 
motion  and  noise.  The  harsh  voice  or  the 
passing  shadow  of  a  crow  made  the  warblers  in 
that  inner  circle  seem  more  like  fractions  of 
bird  life  than  separate,  animated  beings.  In  all, 
I  count  upon  seeing  nineteen  species  of  warblers 
during  the  migration.  It  is  possible  to  see 
several  more  kinds,  but  I  refer  to  my  regular 
friends.  The  outrunners  of  the  migrating 
horde  are  the  pine  warblers,  yellow  -  rumps, 
yellow  red-polls,  black-and-white  creepers,  sum- 
mer yellow  -  birds,  and  black  -  throated  green 
warblers.  These  are  followed  by  the  redstarts, 
black  -  throated  blues,  parulas,  chestnut  -  sided 
warblers,  blackburnians,  bay  -  breasteds,  Nash- 
villes,  ovenbirds  and  accentors,  and  at  varying 
times  by  the  Maryland  yellow-throats,  Wilson's 
black-caps,  Canadian  flycatchers  and  black-polls, 
the  last-named  sounding  the  knell  of  the  migra- 
tion with  their  irritating  z-z-z-ing.  This  hot  day 
by  the  Assabet  was  evidently  just  to  the  liking 
of  the  warblers.  Their  thin  voices  sounded  in 
every  direction.  A  female  redstart  pursued  her 
mate  round  and  round  and  round  the  grove, 
only  stopping  for  a  second's  rest,  in  which  her 
sharp  little  voice  filled  the  chinks  in  her  circle 
of  perpetual  motion.  A  succession  of  yellow- 


170         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING   SNOW. 

rumped  warblers  passed  through  the  trees  catch- 
ing insects  on  the  wing.  They  wore  a  gold  spot 
on  each  breast,  on  their  rumps,  and  on  their 
crowns.  Their  white  throats  reminded  me  of 
the  contour  of  a  swallow's  throat.  The  redstarts 
were  thinking  of  housekeeping.  The  yellow- 
rumps  were  rangers,  foraging  on  their  line  of 
march.  In  a  few  days  the  redstarts  will  have 
built  the  softest  little  cup  in  the  crotch  of  a 
maple  in  that  very  grove  ;  the  yellow-rumps  will 
perhaps  be  north  of  the  Basin  of  Minas. 

Along  the  edges  of  the  meadow,  in  alders  and 
other  low  thick  growth,  bits  of  pure  gold 
shot  hither  and  thither  in  the  sunlight.  They 
were  summer  yellow-birds.  "  Sweety,  sweety, 
sweet,  sweet,  sweet,"  is  a  free  translation  of  their 
song.  They,  too,  were  love-making,  and  will 
soon  be  treasuring  little  spotted  eggs  in  dainty 
fleece- lined,  cup-shaped  nests,  built  in  those  iden- 
tical bushes.  The  Assabet  will  see  their  nests 
begun,  but  the  leaves  will  grow  large  and  keep 
the  secret.  Pine-creeping  warblers  and  black- 
and-white  creeping  warblers  are  appropriately 
named.  Both  were  abundant  by  the  Assabet, 
and  willing  to  be  watched.  They  are  inspectors 
of  leaves  and  twigs,  as  the  downy  woodpeck- 
ers and  little  brown  creepers  are  inspectors  of 
trunks  and  limbs.  All  day  long  the  trilling  of 
the  pine  warblers  sounded  in  the  hot  air.  Seeing 


WARBLER  SUNDAY.  171 

a  handsome  golden-olive  male  motionless  on  the 
lower  limb  of  a  pine,  I  crept  close  to  him  and  lay 
on  the  fragrant  needles  watching  him.  For  ten 
minutes  neither  he  nor  a  chickadee  in  the  next 
tree  moved  a  feather.  Then  I  whistled  a  gentle 
trill.  The  pine  warbler  stirred  and  listened. 
Then  he  tipped  back  his  head,  slightly  opened 
his  tiny  beak  and  his  throat  trembled  as  the 
notes  rolled  evenly  out.  His  notes  roll :  those 
of  a  chipping  sparrow,  which  to  the  unpracticed 
ear  are  indistinguishable,  are  better  indicated  by 
a  line  of  zigzags. 

About  one  o'clock  I  crossed  the  Assabet  and 
climbed  a  hill  overlooking  it  and  Boon  Pond 
which  empties  into  it.  A  strong  breeze  came  like 
a  benediction  to  make  my  lunch  refreshing. 
Beyond  the  pond  and  the  nearer  hills  I  saw 
Nobscot  Hill  as  many  miles  to  the  southeast  of 
me  in  Stow,  as  it  had  been  west  of  me  in  Way- 
land.  Southward  on  a  ridge  was  Marlborough. 
Northward  in  a  hollow  was  Maynard,  with  its 
factory  chimneys.  There  seemed,  to  be  some 
comfortable  farming  land  in  Stow,  and  that 
nearest  us,  and  adjoining  Honeypot  Hill,  — 
which,  by  the  way,  looked  very  insignificant 
from  my  nameless  hill,  which  I  liked  because  no 
one  had  advised  me  to  climb  it  —  was  well 
ploughed,  harrowed,  and  sown,  and  flanked  by 
orchards  and  nurseries.  On  this  cool  hill-top 


172         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

white  -  throated  sparrows  were  scratching  in 
the  leaves.  There  has  been  a  great  migration 
of  these  birds  this  year,  or  else  the  usual  migra- 
tion has  seemed  greater,  because  the  birds  have 
tarried  during  a  week  of  cool,  dry  weather 
when  they  might  have  travelled  quickly  under 
different  circumstances.  Several  of  the  apple- 
trees  on  the  south  side  of  this  hill  were  in  bloom, 
and  the  hum  of  bees  came  from  them.  It 
is  a  soothing  sound,  akin  to  the  singing  of  a 
tea-kettle  in  some  snug  farmhouse  kitchen.  The 
orioles  were  in  the  orchard,  but  I  watched  in  vain 
for  humming  birds.  There  were  orioles  in  Cam- 
bridge on  Saturday,  but  they  were  quiet ;  this 
day  is  their  first  of  demonstration  in  numbers. 
It  is  also  the  first  day  of  open  lilac  blossoms. 

On  the  north  shore  of  Boon  Pond  I  found  a 
large  and  beautiful  grove  of  pines.  A  majority 
of  the  trees  were  pitch-pines,  favorite  resorts  of 
birds  at  any  season  and  in  any  weather.  Lying 
on  a  bank  deeply  cushioned  with  pine  needles  I 
spent  most  of  the  afternoon  fanned  by  a  breeze 
which  swept  across  the  pond,  listening  to  the 
music  of  the  ripples,  the  warblers,  and  the  field 
sparrows  in  the  pasture  beyond  the  grove,  and 
gazing  at  the  blue  water,  and  the  deep  green  of 
the  foliage  above  me.  In  winter  white-pines 
are  very  dark  in  color,  while  pitch-pines  are 
golden-green.  At  this  season,  by  mutual  con- 


WARBLER  SUNDAY.  173 

cessions,  their  coloring  comes  so  nearly  together 
that  the  eye  finds  difficulty  in  tracing  their 
outlines.  The  pines  were  alive  with  warblers. 
Black-and-white  creepers  and  pine  warblers 
were  most  numerous,  but  black-throated  greens, 
yellow-rumps,  and  yellow  red-polls  were  almost 
always  within  sight  or  hearing.  The  trick  of 
the  yellow  red-poll  of  wiggling  his  tail  reminds 
me  of  the  water  thrush  and  the  spotted  sand- 
piper, but  this  bird  certainly  does  not  do  it 
because  he  frequents  the  edges  of  waves  or 
brooks.  Between  Boon  Pond  and  the  Assabet 
are  some  damp  woods,  a  meadow  and  a  line  of 
willows.  In  the  damp  woods  I  found  redstarts, 
black-throated  blue  warblers  and  an  ovenbird. 
In  the  meadow  a  chewink  was  scratching  among 
the  grass  and  innocents,  and  in  the  willows  sum- 
mer yellow-birds,  yellow-rumps,  chestnut-sided 
warblers  and  black-throated  greens  caught  flies 
on  the  wing  and  frolicked  with  each  other 
among  the  falling  blossoms.  The  blossoms  as 
they  fell  upon  the  pond  looked  like  yellow  cater- 
pillars in  danger  of  drowning,  but  as  the  wind 
caught  them  they  sailed  away  merrily  to  distant 
shores.  They  made  a  brave  fleet  standing  east- 
ward with  all  sails  set.  The  ovenbird  differs 
greatly  from  most  of  the  other  warblers.  In 
fact,  his  character  and  dress  both  proclaim  him 
a  thrush.  His  back  is  olive-green,  but  it  is  not 


174         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

far  removed  from  the  upper  coloring  of  the 
olive-backed  thrush.  Below  he  is  white  with 
dusky  spots  on  his  breast  and  sides ;  and  so  is 
the  olive-backed  thrush.  His  eyes  are  large  and 
earnest  like  a  thrush's,  and  his  nest  is  placed 
upon  the  ground  like  that  of  the  hermit  thrush. 
His  dark  orange  crown  set  in  black  is  his  one 
family  emblem  which  a  thrush  would  repudiate. 
The  ovenbird  by  the  Assabet  dropped  to  the 
ground  when  he  saw  me  and  stole  away  as 
slowly  and  silently  as  though  he  had  been  a 
bittern,  expert  in  the  art  of  gliding. 

At  six  o'clock,  I  stood  on  a  low  bridge  over 
the  Assabet  at  Whitman's  Crossing.  The  air 
was  full  of  swallows,  the  bushes  and  weeds  were 
rich  in  blackbirds,  snowy  and  rose-tinted  blossoms 
decked  the  orchards,  a  fair  pale  sunset  presided 
over  the  sky  and  looked  at  itself  in  the  river. 
A  snake  with  his  head  reared  above  the  ripples 
swam  swiftly  across  from  one  weedy  shore  to  the 
other.  The  whistle  of  the  train  echoed  a  mile 
away,  and  its  growing  thunder  was  in  my  ears. 
Looking  down  the  stream  I  could  see  a  distant 
hill ;  nearer  were  two  wooded  points,  one  on  the 
east,  one  on  the  west ;  nearer  still  a  meadow  full  of 
rank  grass,  and  at  my  feet  a  mirror  of  blue 
water.  The  coloring  of  that  farewell  glimpse  of 
Assabet  was  exquisite.  The  hill,  covered  prob- 
ably with  scrub  oak,  was  rosy  purple ;  of  the 


WARBLER  SUNDAY.  175 

two  wooded  points,  one  was  a  mingling  of  the 
dark  green  of  pines  in  shadow,  the  pale  tender 
green  of  young  beeches  and  birches,  and  the 
delicate  reds  of  maples  bearing  their  keys ;  the 
other,  densely  grown  with  alders,  was  rich  with 
olive-browns  and  greens.  The  meadow  grass  was 
bluish  green  in  shadow,  and  golden  green  in 
the  sunlight.  The  intensity  of  the  coloring 
seemed  to  be  increased  by  looking  at  it  with  my 
head  on  one  side.  The  effect  of  looking  at  any 
landscape  in  this  way  is  to  make  it  much  like 
the  image  in  a  Claude  Lorraine  glass. 


ROCK  MEADOW  AT  NIGHT. 

AT  a  quarter  past  six  on  Monday,  May  11,  I 
caught  a  train  at  Porter's  Station  and  went  to 
Belmont.  A  brisk  walk  along  the  Concord 
turnpike,  past  blooming  horse-chestnuts,  and 
through  air  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  lilacs,  over 
Wellington  Hill  and  down  into  Rock  Meadow, 
brought  me  just  at  sunset  to  the  willows  and  the 
home  of  the  bittern.  Turning  into  the  marsh,  I 
crossed  it  on  an  old  cart  track  to  a  wooded  island 
in  its  midst.  I  concealed  myself  among  the 
small  trees  on  the  edge  of  the  island  and  swept 
the  meadow  with  my  glass.  Hundreds  of  frogs, 
piping  hylas,  redwing  blackbirds,  crows,  cat- 
birds, and  small  birds  mingled  their  voices  in  an 
indescribable  vesper  chorus.  Nature  was  alone. 
Man's  presence  was  unsuspected.  I  felt  like  an 
intruder,  but  remembered  that  I  had  no  evil  in- 
tent against  anything  in  that  great  meadow. 
While  still  searching  with  my  glass  for  the  bit- 
tern I  heard  his  call,  and  at  once  discovered  him. 
He  was  a  hundred  yards  from  me  in  the  grass. 
He  was  facing  northwest,  and  I  was  nearly 


ROCK  MEADOW  AT  NIGHT.  177 

due  north  of  him.  His  head,  neck  and  shoul- 
ders were  plainly  visible.  I  settled  myself  into 
a  comfortable  position  and  watched  him  closely 
through  my  glass.  Except  when  pumping  or 
preparing  to  pump  he  was  perfectly  motionless, 
his  beak  pointing  well  upward.  I  knew  when 
he  was  about  to  begin  his  music  by  the  slow 
lowering  of  his  beak.  This  was  followed  by  the 
agitation  of  his  breast  and  the  first  sounds  from 
his  throat.  Then  came  his  spasm,  his  neck  and 
head  being  thrown  up  and  snapped  forward  so 
violently  that  it  seemed  that  the  head  must  suf- 
fer dislocation.  With  these  contortions  came 
the  noises  which  are  so  difficult  to  explain  or 
describe.  In  this  instance  it  seemed  as  though 
water  was  being  shaken  violently  in  a  skin  bot- 
tle. Listening  intently,  the  sounds  seemed  best 
expressed  by  the  syllables  "  kung-ka-unk,"  re- 
peated three,  four  or  five  times.  To  the  demor- 
alization of  my  throat  I  repeated  these  syllables 
loudly,  making  them  as  nearly  as  possible  as  the 
bird  did.  He  replied  promptly  and  betrayed 
interest  by  more  rapid  and  longer  performances. 
This  continued  until  it  was  so  dark  that  I  could 
only  just  discern  him  with  my  glass,  when  sud- 
denly my  attention  was  distracted  by  the  sound 
of  snipe  flying  overhead.  Their  performance 
is  similar  to  that  of  the  woodcock,  but  less  elab- 
orate. Rising  to  a  considerable  height  above 


178         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

the  meadow,  they  fly  with  rapid  wing-beats  .round 
and  round  over  it,  making  from  time  to  time  a 
series  of  short  notes,  similar  to  those  produced 
by  a  person  blowing  in  a  rapidly  intermittent 
way  across  the  mouth  of  a  small  shallow  bottle. 
Whether  this  noise  is  vocal  or  mechanical  in 
character,  the  bird  controls  it,  and  stops  it  with- 
out stopping  its  flight.  This  evening  the  bird 
as  a  rule  seemed  satisfied  with  twenty-five  or 
thirty  successive  notes  in  a  series. 

My  interest  in  the  bittern  was  revived  by 
hearing  him  once  more  at  a  distance.  Nothing 
broke  the  level  of  the  grass  where  his  head  had 
been  in  sight  so  long.  He  seemed  to  have 
moved  quite  rapidly  over  a  space  of  a  hundred 
yards  or  more,  and  to  be  retreating  westward 
toward  the  woods  and  the  brook.  It  was  now 
quite  dark,  save  for  the  stars  and  a  feeble  young 
moon  in  the  western  sky.  The  snipe  were  still 
flying  as  I  left  the  meadow  and  picked  my  way 
carefully  back  to  the  turnpike.  Their  voices 
and  those  of  frogs  and  piping  hylas  alone  dis- 
turbed the  restful  stillness  of  the  night.  I 
looked  up  the  road  and  down.  It  seemed  like  a 
great  conduit  with  light  gleaming  from  both  ends 
along  its  white  and  level  floor.  Should  I  walk 
to  Belmont  and  wait  for  a  ten  o'clock  train,  or 
traverse  pastures  and  an  unknown  swamp  in 
order  to  reach  Arlington  Heights  and  later  the 


ROCK  MEADOW  AT  NIGHT.  179 

electric  cars  ?     There  was  novelty  in  the  latter 
alternative,  and  I  chose  it. 

Leaving  Rock  Meadow  I  crossed  a  field,  then 
the  road  leading  to  the  Belmont  mineral  spring, 
and  entered  a  pasture.  A  number  of  cows  were 
feeding  by  the  light  of  the  puny  moon.  They 
watched  me  suspiciously  until  the  cedars  con- 
cealed my  hurrying  form.  Then  I  struck  Marsh 
Street,  and  followed  it  uphill,  until  afar  the  tall 
electric  light  on  the  Heights  flashed  a  message 
over  intervening  gloom.  It  was  a  mile  distant. 
The  first  half  of  that  mile  was  over  land,  or 
water,  unknown  to  me.  The  second  half  was 
across  the  cedar-dotted  pastures  so  often  visited 
by  me  last  winter.  I  left  the  road  and  struck 
into  the  unknown  pasture,  keeping  the  moon  on 
my  left  and  somewhat  behind  me.  Cedars, 
pines,  birches,  well-armed  barberry  and  black- 
berry bushes  opposed  my  passage.  Soon  the 
land  began  to  decline,  the  Arlington  beacon  was 
hidden,  the  air  grew  chilly,  and  the  soil  moist 
and  soft.  Then  patches  of  water  gleamed  on 
my  left,  and  the  voices  of  frogs  greeted  me.  A 
shaky  stone  wall  was  crossed,  and  the  dry  land 
turned  to  mud  and  tussocks  of  grass.  Then 
came  a  ditch.  This  proved  the  crisis  in  the 
walk,  for  beyond  it  the  land  rose  and  soon  I 
reached  familiar  ground.  I  recognized  cedars 
which  had  suffered  in  the  ice  and  snow  storms 


180         LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

of  January.  Their  backs  were  still  bent.  On 
my  right  were  the  dark  woods  in  which  I  had 
found  the  most  beautiful  snow  caverns,  and  near 
by  was  the  ground  frequented  during  long  cold 
weeks  by  the  flock  of  winter  robins.  The  soft 
May  night,  with  its  frog  music,  was  unlike  those 
days  of  hyperborean  delights.  It  was  more  com- 
fortable and  more  commonplace.  The  next 
stone  wall  was  the  one  where  snow  fleas  had 
swarmed  by  millions.  I  recalled  in  one  of  its 
angles  the  white  snow  bearing  the  footprints  of 
quail  and  field  mice.  So  I  went  on,  picking 
my  way  cautiously  over  the  dark  ground  until 
I  came  out  into  Park  Avenue,  close  by  the 
Heights. 

The  view  from  the  Heights  at  night  is  be- 
witching. Myriads  of  stars  people  the  blue 
heavens,  and  myriads  of  baser  stars  people  those 
depths  below.  The  stars  above  differ  one  from 
another  in  glory ;  the  stars  below  differ  one  from 
another  in  evil.  Those  above  tell  of  eternity 
and  rest.  Those  below  tell  of  toil,  vanity,  self- 
indulgence,  crime,  sickness,  —  the  unrest  of  hu- 
man life.  Still,  being  a  man,  I  looked  down 
into  that  sea  of  light,  and  seemed  to  find  one  star 
gleaming  in  the  distance  which  was  a  part  of  the 
glory  above,  and  related  only  by  propinquity  to 
the  evil  of  the  city.  Towards  that  light  I  took 
my  way,  and  finding  it,  put  it  out  and  went  to 
bed. 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  MEADOW. 

THERE  are  days  in  May  when  the  northwest 
wind  sweeps  through  the  trees  with  the  bluster- 
ing rush  of  September  air.  It  seems  to  be  test- 
ing the  young  foliage  and  warning  the  soft, 
glossy,  newly  unfolded  leaves  of  the  fate  which 
attends  them  only  a  few  weeks  later  in  the  year. 
It  is  rough  with  the  apple  blossoms  piled  high 
upon  the  orchard's  open  arms,  and  it  waves  to 
and  fro  the  "  Christmas  candles "  of  the  horse- 
chestnut  trees.  On  its  breath  is  wafted  the  per- 
fume of  lilacs,  or  the  pungent  message  of  pine 
woods  burning,  in  spots  left  too  long  dry  by  the 
fickle  spring  rains.  There  is  a  chill  in  this 
turbulent  air,  not  the  damp  chill  of  the  east 
wind,  but  the  chill  which  has  in  it  a  faint  sug- 
gestion of  autumnal  frosts.  Even  after  the  wind 
goes  to  sleep  at  sunset  the  air  remains  cold,  and 
farmers  wonder  if  there  is  to  be  a  late  frost. 

Sunday,  May  17,  was  such  a  day,  and,  as 
the  woods  were  too  full  of  noise  and  waving 
leaves  for  birds  to  be  either  heard  or  seen,  my 
friend  and  I  went  to  Rock  Meadow  to  visit  my 
bittern.  We  reached  the  willows  at  four  in  the 


182         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

afternoon,  feeling  sure  he  would  be  present,  be- 
cause his  mate  is  undoubtedly  somewhere  in  that 
quiet  land  of  waving  marsh  grass,  keeping  warm 
her  four  or  five  drab  eggs  in  her  cunningly  con- 
cealed nest.  Between  the  wind  gusts  we  listened 
intently  to  hear  his  now  familiar  note.  He  was 
not  in  the  place  where  I  had  seen  him  before, 
but  at  half  past  four,  as  we  reached  the  northern 
part  of  the  meadow,  I  distinctly  heard  his  boom- 
ing near  at  hand.  We  crept  cautiously  along  the 
line  of  wall  and  bushes  bounding  the  meadow  on 
the  north.  Suddenly  my  friend  gripped  me  by 
the  shoulder  and  dragged  me  to  the  ground.  A 
pair  of  black  ducks  flew  by,  scudding  low  over 
the  bushes.  We  next  disturbed  a  flock  of  twenty 
crows,  which  rose  from  an  old  cornfield  where 
they  had  been  feeding.  Rock  Meadow  is  a  re- 
markable rendezvous  for  crows,  summer  and 
winter.  What  makes  it  so  attractive  I  have 
thus  far  been  unable  to  ascertain.  These  crows 
kept  close  watch  upon  us  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon. 

Standing  upon  a  knoll  capped  with  a  few  bar- 
berry bushes,  we  looked  straight  down  the  whole 
length  of  Rock  Meadow.  The  rains  of  the  past 
two  days  had  given  a  wonderful  impetus  to  the 
grass,  which  was  now  high  enough  to  hide  a  bit- 
tern completely,  unless  he  chose  to  raise  his 
slender  neck  above  it.  With  our  glasses  we 


THE  SECRETS   OF  THE  MEADOW.         183 

swept  the  wind -ruffled  grass  land  thoroughly 
over  and  over  again.  The  bittern  was  not  to  be 
seen.  But  almost  at  once  my  friend  whispered 
excitedly,  "  I  see  him,"  and  by  a  common  im- 
pulse we  merged  our  outlines  in  those  of  the 
barberries  behind  us.  The  wary  bird  was  in  the 
edge  of  the  meadow,  at  the  foot  of  the  slight 
slope  on  which  we  stood.  His  head  and  neck 
were  raised  above  the  grass,  and  resembled  in 
size  and  color  a  cat-tail,  which  the  wind  and 
weather  had  reduced  to  a  mass  of  flaxen  seed- 
vessels  loosely  attached  to  their  stalks.  For 
several  minutes  he  did  not  move,  and  with  our 
eyes  glued  to  the  barrels  of  our  field-glasses  we 
watched  his  uplifted  beak  and  stiffened  neck. 
Slowly  his  head  dropped,  and  with  a  premonitory 
shake  disappeared  in  the  grass.  Seven  seconds 
after  it  was  flung  up,  so  that  the  bill  pointed  to 
the  sky,  but  it  fell  back  as  quickly  into  the 
grass.  This  was  done  four  times,  and  each  time 
the  "  kung-ka-unk "  came  to  our  ears.  After 
this  performance  had  been  repeated  several  times, 
the  bittern  sank  slowly  beneath  the  grass,  as 
though  to  begin  pumping,  but  did  not  reappear. 
Waiting  for  a  while,  we  walked  a  few  rods  along 
the  edge  of  the  meadow  to  a  point  where  several 
oak  trees  spread  their  strong  arms  to  the  breeze. 
Concealed  behind  their  trunks,  we  watched  the 
sea  of  grass,  and  soon  discovered  the  beak  and 


184        LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

long  stiffened  neck  of  the  bittern  pointing 
towards  the  zenith,  from  a  spot  fifteen  or  twenty 
yards  distant  from  the  place  which  we  had  just 
left.  He  was  quite  as  near  us  as  before,  and 
this  time  he  had  no  suspicion  of  our  where- 
abouts. I  climbed  into  the  middle  of  one  of  the 
oaks,  and  my  friend  secured  a  comfortable  posi- 
tion on  the  wall  below,  and  with  glasses  and  a 
stop-watch  in  constant  use,  we  reduced  the  bit- 
tern's performance  to  its  lowest  terms. 

The  bird,  when  at  rest  between  his  spasms, 
stood  with  his  neck  extended  and  raised,  and  his 
head  and  beak  pointing  forward  and  upward. 
The  first  indication  that  he  was  about  to  pump 
was  a  deliberate  lowering  of  his  beak  to  the 
level  of  his  body,  and  the  settling  down  into  his 
breast  and  feathers  of  his  long  neck.  This  made 
his  breast  look  larger  and  fuller  than  when  his 
head  was  raised  and  his  neck  stretched  upward. 
The  slow  motion  of  lowering  the  head  into  line 
with  the  body  was  followed  by  a  slight  shake  of 
the  head  and  throat,  and  the  first  of  a  series  of 
motions  which  were  caused  apparently  by  volun- 
tary swallowing  of  air.  The  bill  opened,  the 
head  was  raised  slightly  and  then  dropped,  and 
the  bill  closed  with  a  snap.  The  first  snap  was 
scarcely  audible,  the  second  was  much  louder, 
the  third,  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth  perfectly  dis- 
tinct, and  a  seventh,  when  made,  was  less  dis- 


THE   SECRETS   OF  THE  MEADOW.          185 

tinct,  partly  because  instantly  followed  by  the 
first  "  pump."  Usually  six  or  seven  snaps  were 
succeeded  by  three  or  four  pumps,  but  the  bird 
varied  the  number  of  snaps  and  pumps  consider- 
ably, and  I  presume  different  bitterns  would  show 
marked  individualities.  By  a  "  pump  "  I  mean 
the  triple  sound  which  is  called  "  booming," 
"  stakedriving,"  or  "  pumping,"  according  to  the 
fancy  of  the  writer,  and  which  to  my  ears  sounds 
as  much  like  "  kung-ka-unk "  as  anything  else. 
The  head  is  in  a  line  with  the  back  when  the 
"  kung  "  is  made,  but  as  the  first  syllable  reaches 
the  ears  of  an  observer,  he  sees  the  bird's  head 
flung  abruptly  and  sharply  back,  so  that  the  bill 
points  for  a  second  to  the  zenith,  and  then  sees 
it  thrown  down  again  to  its  former  position. 
The  "  ka-unk  "  follows  this  spasm  so  closely  that 
it  is  impossible  to  be  certain  whether  the  "ka  "  is 
made  on  the  upward  stroke  or  on  the  downward. 
The  three  sounds  "  kung-ka-unk  "  occupy  just 
about  a  second  of  time,  which  makes  it  clear 
how  rapid  is  the  motion  of  the  head.  The 
period  from  the  instant  that  the  head  first 
reaches  the  level  of  the  back  to  the  instant  when 
the  fourth  "  unk  "  makes  the  end  of  the  song,  is 
in  most  cases  exactly  ten  seconds  in  duration. 
Then  the  head  is  raised,  the  long  neck  extends 
itself,  the  breast  grows  smaller  accordingly,  and 
the  bird  resumes  his  stiffness  and  watchfulness. 


186         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

My  friend's  stop-watch  recorded  thirty-seven 
seconds  as  the  normal  interval  between  the  last 
pump  of  one  performance  and  the  first  snap  of 
the  succeeding  one.  Twice  during  an  hour  the 
bittern  sank  beneath  the  grass  and  glided  to  a 
new  spot.  Once  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  011 
his  way,  and  he  seemed  to  be  moving  more  rap- 
idly than  the  duration  of  his  concealment  indi- 
cated. From  his  third  station  he  took  flight, 
and,  with  long,  graceful  wing-strokes,  flew  an 
eighth  of  a  mile  down  the  meadow  and  alighted 
on  the  exact  spot  in  which  I  had  found  him  the 
Monday  evening  preceding.  We  hastened  back 
to  the  turnpike  and  sought  the  cover  I  had 
previously  used.  As  we  listened  to  the  bird  at 
a  distance,  with  a  grove  of  trees  interrupting  his 
notes,  the  only  sound  which  we  could  hear  was 
the  "  ka,"  which,  under  the  changed  conditions 
became  the  true  stake-driving  "  chuck "  or 
"  tock."  The  nearer  we  came  to  the  bird,  the 
less  there  remained  of  this  acoustic  metamorpho- 
sis, and  as  we  crawled  cautiously  through  the 
woods  to  the  edge  of  the  swamp  nearest  him  it 
disappeared  altogether,  and  to  our  ears  the 
"  kung-ka-unk  "  was  as  distinct  as  before.  We 
listened  to  and  watched  the  strange  genius  of 
the  marsh  until  he  stopped  his  performance  at 
twenty  minutes  of  eight ;  but  our  thoughts  were 
at  times  diverted  from  him. 


THE  SECRETS   OF  THE  MEADOW.          187 

A  short-billed  marsh  wren  sang  his  quaint, 
nervous,  and  unmusical  little  song  to  us.  It 
seemed  to  me,  never  having  heard  it  before,  that 
it  was  a  sound  well  calculated  not  to  be  heard  by 
any  ears  but  those  specially  attuned  to  it.  A 
similar  thought  had  occurred  to  me  earlier  in  the 
afternoon,  when  my  friend  called  my  attention 
to  what  he  called  the  "  background  music  "  of 
the  crickets,  audible  probably  that  day  for  the 
first  time  this  year.  They  are  sounds  which  go 
to  form  the  great  undertone  of  the  day,  and  the 
ear  is  usually  too  busy  with  more  distinctly  sep- 
arated and  louder  sounds  to  take  note  of  them. 
Let,  however,  the  rest  of  the  world's  noises 
cease,  or  the  listener  become  feverish  and  over 
sensitive  to  sound,  and  this  "  background  music  " 
surges  into  the  brain  like  an  incoming  tide  and 
thrills  every  nerve  with  its  rapid  rhythm. 

A  sound  which  even  a  deaf  man  could  not 
have  ignored  that  evening  was  the  persistent 
quacking,  or  rather  quaarking,  of  a  female  black 
duck,  who  was  exploring  a  small  ditch  between 
us  and  the  bittern.  Her  mate  was  near  by, 
although  comparatively  silent,  and  I  hope  for 
his  sake  that  her  voice  was  more  musical  in  his 
ears  than  in  ours.  After  going  the  length  of 
the  ditch  the  ducks  flew,  the  female  quaarking 
while  in  the  air.  In  about  ten  minutes  they 
returned,  the  female's  voice  still  vigorous,  and 
plumped  down  into  a  pool  near  by. 


188         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

At  ten  minutes  of  eight,  as  we  left  the  meadow 
and  strolled  towards  our  waiting  carryall,  the 
upper  air  resounded  with  the  strange  music  of 
the  flying  snipe.  My  friend,  who  has  heard  this 
sound  scores  of  times,  feels  confident  that  it  is 
mechanical  in  character, — "drumming,"  in  fact. 
To  my  ears  it  seems  to  be  vocal  in  quality. 
Whichever  it  may  be,  its  weird  sweetness  makes 
it  one  of  the  most  attractive  night  or  twilight 
sounds  in  nature.  One  accepts  rather  as  a 
matter  of  course  the  sunlight  singing  of  a  light- 
hearted  little  finch  or  vireo,  but  for  a  shy  recluse 
of  the  swamps  to  betake  himself  at  evening  to  the 
heights  of  the  sky,  and  there  against  the  stars, 
invisible  to  all  except  the  keenest  eyes,  to  pro- 
duce his  witching  serenade,  is  something  unique, 
and  captivating  to  the  imagination. 

Early  in  the  day  Rock  Meadow  told  us  two 
secrets  which  were  very  precious  to  two  families 
of  birds.  In  the  great  pollard  willows  which 
line  the  causeway  are  many  comfortable  crotches, 
angles  and  curves  which  appeal  to  nest  builders. 
In  one  of  these  a  robin  had  placed  her  nest  and 
laid  her  eggs.  Her  bright  eye  watched  us 
keenly  as  we  drew  near  the  tree,  and  the  mo- 
ment she  felt  the  force  of  our  gaze  upon  her,  she 
slipped  away  to  reproach  us  from  a  distance. 
Those  greenish  blue  eggs  were  the  first  I  had 
seen  this  year,  and  they  seemed  like  precious 


THE   SECRETS   OF  THE  MEADOW.  189 

stones,  so  delicate  were  they  in  form  and  color. 
The  willows  have  also  many  caverns  of  various 
sizes  and  shapes  in  their  trunks.  From  one  of 
these,  through  which  and  to  the  depths  of  which 
a  man's  hand  could  but  just  pass,  a  song  sparrow 
sprang  as  we  sauntered  past.  Fortunate  for  her 
that  we  were  friends,  for  in  the  cave  from  which 
she  came  lay  her  five  richly  decorated  eggs.  As 
a  rule  this  sparrow  builds  a  grass  nest  by  a 
brook  bank,  flat  on  the  pasture  turf,  in  a  low 
evergreen  in  a  meadow,  or  in  a  cup-shaped  hol- 
low in  a  decaying  stump.  Among  all  the  song 
sparrows'  nests  which  my  friend  and  I  had  seen, 
none  approached  this  in  the  security  and  origi- 
nality of  its  location. 


WACHUSETT. 

BY  starting  from  Cambridge  at  half -past  six 
A.  M.,  on  Saturday,  May  23d,  I  was  able  to  leave 
Fitchburg  at  nine  behind  an  eccentric  stable 
horse,  bound  for  the  top  of  Wachusett  Moun- 
tain. The  distance  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
was  about  nine  miles.  For  the  first  four  miles 
the  road  was  far  from  agreeable.  We  encoun- 
tered rough  pavements  or  dust,  the  obtrusive 
features  of  a  young  and:  by  no  means  beautiful 
city,  hillsides  denuded  of  trees,  and  in  many 
cases  turned  into  quarries,  the  Nashua  River 
defiled  by  mill-waste  and  stained  by  chemicals, 
railroad  embankments  coated  with  ashes  and  bare 
of  verdure,  and  brick  mill  buildings,  grim,  noisy, 
and  forbidding.  The  road  gradually  ascended, 
and  at  length  crossed  the  river,  passed  under 
the  railway  and  sought  the  woods.  A  parting 
glance  down  stream  showed  a  mass  of  steeples, 
chimneys,  brick  walls,  quarry  derricks,  freight 
cars,  and  dirty  mill  ponds  flanked  by  wasted  hill- 
sides and  overhung  by  a  cloud  of  smoke.  Be- 
tween the  smoke  and  the  hurly-burly  of  the 
town  a  distant  line  of  hills  shone  out  on  the 


WACHUSETT.  191 

horizon.  It  was  a  promise  of  something  purer 
above. 

As  we  followed  the  highway  southward 
toward  Princeton  we  passed  through  no  forests 
or  remnants  of  forest,  nothing  but  cleared  land 
or  new  woodland  in  which  birch,  poplar,  cherry, 
and  other  inferior  growth  predominated.  The 
undergrowth  was  mainly  mountain  laurel,  which 
a  month  from  now  will  be  a  joy  to  the  eye. 
Warblers  sang  in  every  thicket  —  the  ovenbirds 
being  especially  noisy.  Next  to  them  the  sweet 
but  wearisome  voice  of  the  red-eyed  vireo  sounded 
on  all  sides.  Brown  thrushes  were  noticeably 
numerous  and  tame.  Along  the  wayside,  lady's 
slipper,  white  and  purple  violets,  hawthorn, 
clintonia,  blackberry  vines  and  barberry  bushes, 
painted  trillium,  chokeberry  and  chokecherry, 
star  flower,  and  houstonia  were  abundant.  The 
great  size  of  the  dandelions  attracted  our  notice, 
and  the  violets  were  unusually  large  and  beau- 
tiful. 

A  little  after  eleven  o'clock  we  emerged  from 
between  two  ridges  and  saw  the  mass  of  Wachusett 
before  us.  A  long  even  slope  from  northwest  to 
southeast  terminated  in  a  flat  summit,  on  which 
several  wooden  buildings  stood  out  sharply  and 
disagreeably  against  the  sky.  The  southeastern 
slope  was  much  more  abrupt  than  the  north- 
western, but  far  from  precipitous.  There  was 


192         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

nothing  grand  or  impressive  about  the  mountain 
apart  from  the  simple  fact  of  its  height,  two 
thousand  feet.  The  carriage  road  to  the  sum- 
mit proceeds  part  way  along  the  eastern  base, 
then  meets  a  road  from  Princeton  and  turns 
abruptly  northwestward,  makes  several  great 
serpent  curves  upon  the  northern  and  north- 
western face,  and  finally  gains  the  summit  from 
the  east.  The  road  is  remarkably  well  sur- 
veyed, and  is  kept  in  good  order.  The  eccen- 
tric stable  horse,  which  up  to  the  moment  of 
our  reaching  the  ascent  had  shown  a  willingness 
to  go  anywhere  but  to  the  mountain,  started  up 
the  slope  with  such  zeal  that  I  found  it  impos- 
sible to  keep  up  with  him  on  foot.  This  made 
our  progress  rather  more  rapid  than  pleasant, 
and  the  charming  glimpses  of  scenery  below  us 
and  at  a  distance  were  only  half  appreciated. 
Most  of  the  trees  on  the  mountain  seemed  to  be 
of  recent  growth,  but  among  them  dozens  of 
scattered  giants  rose  to  show  what  lumbermen's 
greed  might  have  left  in  the  way  of  a  forest  if 
it  had  been  restrained.  Some  of  these  large 
trees  were  sugar-maples,  while  others  were  yellow 
birches  and  beeches.  The  most  striking  flowers 
along  the  mountain  road  were  creamy  white 
bunches  of  early  elder,  pinkish  purple  rhodora, 
and  rose-colored  azalea  just  coming  into  bloom. 
Birds  were  few  and  far  between  on  the  moun- 


WACHUSETT.  193 

tain  sides,  although  they  had  been  plenty  below. 
The  call  of  the  ovenbird  occasionally  reached 
our  ears,  and  at  one  point  the  scolding  of  a 
superb  scarlet  tanager  drew  our  eyes  to  the  spot 
where  his  plumage  seemed  burning  among  the 
leaves. 

The  summit,  reached  just  at  noon,  proved 
anything  but  attractive.  Stripped  of  trees  and 
bushes,  it  has  been  afflicted  by  a  large  and  com- 
monplace hotel,  several  barns  and  ugly  sheds, 
and  a  bowling  alley,  billiard  room,  and  tintype 
gallery.  The  north  wind  was  polluted  by  the 
escaping  odors  of  a  cask  of  gasoline,  and  when 
we  sought  the  groves  below  the  crest,  we  encoun- 
tered tin  cans,  broken  bottles  and  other  remains 
of  previous  seasons.  When  one  seeks  gasoline, 
electric  bells,  and  a  tintype  gallery  he  has  a 
right  to  feel  pleased  on  finding  them,  but  when  I 
seek  Nature  on  a  mountain  top  and  find  her  fet- 
tered by  civilization,  I  have  a  right  to  feel 
aggrieved.  However,  we  endeavored  to  forget 
man  and  his  gasoline  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  beautiful. 

What  first  struck  us  was  the  number  of  fires 
which  were  contributing  columns  of  blue  smoke 
to  an  atmosphere  already  dimmed  by  its  thin 
strata.  More  than  a  dozen  such  fires  were  in 
sight.  Thanks  to  them,  the  view  was  soft  and 
dreamy  in  tone,  giving  the  idea  of  distance  more 


194         LAXD   OF  THE  LINGERING  KNOW. 

by  suggestion  than  by  disclosure.  Eastward 
and  southward,  where  the  smoke  lay  heaviest, 
the  land  seemed  flat.  Most  of  it  was  free  from 
forest,  but  every  few  miles  a  dark  line  or  spot 
told  of  a  grove  of  pines  saved  thus  far  from  the 
destroying  hand  of  this  generation  of  timber 
thieves.  A  few  lakes  caught  the  light  of  the 
sky  and  flashed  it  back  to  us,  and  scattered 
houses,  usually  white,  broke  the  monotony  of 
green  fields  and  pastures.  Marlborough  on  the 
east,  Worcester  on  the  south,  Gardner  on  the 
west,  and  Fitchburg  on  the  north  were  nuclei 
of  houses,  reminding  me  of  the  piles  of  sand 
which  form  themselves  on  a  pane  of  sanded  glass 
when  a  violin  bow  is  drawn  across  its  edge. 
Far  away  in  the  smoke  on  the  western  horizon 
rose  the  Berkshire  Hills  with  proud  Greylock 
dominant  over  them.  I  thought  of  the  fair 
Connecticut  flowing  southward  between  them 
and  us,  and  of  the  bright  Hudson  rolling  be- 
yond them  on  its  journey  toward  the  modern 
Babylon.  Northward  of  the  Berkshires  the  sky 
line  was  ragged  with  hills  and  distant  mountains 
in  Vermont  and  New  Hampshire,  even  to  the 
point  where,  rising  serenely  from  its  granite 
bed,  Monadnock  reared  its  noble  head  toward 
the  heavens.  It  alone  in  all  that  smoky  land- 
scape was  majestic.  All  else  was  soft,  yielding, 
sleepy,  but  Monadnock  rose  with  clear-cut  out- 


WACHUSETT.  195 

lines  and  sharp  summit,  attracting  the  eye,  fix- 
ing the  attention,  compelling  admiration.  On 
its  right  —  that  is,  to  the  eastward  —  its  pack 
strung  out  in  perpetual  pursuit  of  it.  There 
was  Peterborough  in  the  fore  and  the  Unca- 
noonucs  far  behind,  Crotchett  Mountain  in  the 
north  and  Watatic  in  the  south  —  the  latter 
"  out  of  bounds,"  if  the  laws  of  this  great  chase 
require  the  pursuing  hills  to  stay  on  New 
Hampshire  soil.  In  the  dim  distance,  beyond 
this  group  of  sunny  hills,  hallowed  in  my  mind 
by  a  thousand  loving  recollections  of  boyhood 
days,  were  other  hills.  What  were  they  ?  I 
could  not  tell  beyond  the  certainty  that  they 
were  stepping  stones  to  that  far  northland 
which  I  call  home,  Kearsarge,  Cardigan,  Cube, 
Moosilauke,  Stinson,  Ossipee,  Chocorua !  I 
could  recall  the  feeling  of  every  summit  under 
my  weary  foot,  as  I  had  pressed  upon  it  with  the 
satisfaction  of  a  conqueror.  Perhaps  in  a  clear 
day  some  of  those  sentinel  peaks  of  New  Hamp- 
shire can  be  really  recognized  from  Wachusett. 
After  absorbing  the  beauties  of  the  distant 
view  we  explored  the  stunted  groves  of  beeches 
and  oaks,  mountain  ash,  striped  and  mountain 
maples  below  the  summit.  Here  I  found  a  robin, 
on  a  nest  containing  three  eggs.  The  dwarfed 
trees,  being  numerous  and  well  proportioned, 
seemed  of  normal  size,  but  the  bird,  her  nest 


196         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING   SNOW. 

and  I  appeared  to  have  expanded  beyond  our 
proper  dimensions.  The  carpet  under  this  grove 
was  woven  of  beautiful  forms.  Its  warp  was  of 
arbutus,  false  Solomon  seal,  checkerberry,  straw- 
berry, and  potentilla,  its  woof  of  clintonia,  hob- 
ble bush,  sarsaparilla,  skunk  currant,  twisted 
stalk,  and  columbine. 

The  arbutus  was  heavily  laden  with  flowers 
which  had  spent  their  sweetness  on  birds  and 
breezes.  They  were  dry,  and  their  lovely  tints 
had  changed  to  chestnut  and  russet.  A  great 
bed  of  anemones  rippled  in  the  wind.  They 
seemed  to  be  four  weeks  behind  their  sisters, 
which  I  had  found  so  abundant  at  Heard's 
Island.  In  a  low  tree  above  them  a  junco 
called  to  his  mate,  and  I  felt  confident  that  this 
mountain  top  had  seemed  to  them  a  comfortable 
nesting  spot.  Two  thousand  feet  upward  is 
almost  as  good  as  two  hundred  miles  northward. 
The  Nashville  warblers  which  I  saw  on  or  near 
the  summit  seemed  also  to  agree  to  this  prin- 
ciple. 

At  half-past  two  we  started  down  the  moun- 
tain, and  although  our  eccentric  horse  was  even 
more  anxious  to  go  down  than  to  go  up,  we  suc- 
ceeded in  seeing  more  of  the  view  than  while 
ascending.  At  the  foot  of  the  north  slope  of 
the  mountain  lay  Wachusett  Pond,  a  charming 
sheet  of  water,  reminding  me  by  its  location  and 


WACHUSETT.  197 

size  of  Dublin  Pond,  nestling  at  the  north  of 
Monadnock.  Over  it,  beyond  a  multitude  of 
farms,  groves,  and  hills,  Monadnock  cut  into  the 
sky  as  the  commanding  feature  of  the  sleepy 
landscape.  This  combination  of  lake  and  moun- 
tain was  the  most  beautiful  view  Wachusett 
gave  us.  Although  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain remained  springlike,  the  lowlands  along 
the  Nashua  River  were  burned  deeply  with  the 
brand  of  summer.  Early  flowers  had  gone, 
later  ones  were  going.  Migrant  birds  had 
mainly  gone  by,  and  the  dry  z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z  of  the 
blackpoll  warbler  wore  on  the  edge  of  one's 
temper  much  as  the  song  of  the  harvest  fly  does 
in  its  season.  There  are  many  pleasant  views 
from  the  Fitchburg  train  as  it  hurries  along  from 
the  valley  of  the  Nashua  across  that  of  the 
Assabet  and  Musketaquid  to  that  of  the  Charles : 
Wachusett  across  the  vale  of  Leoininster,  As- 
sabet water  at  Concord  Junction,  the  meadows 
of  the  Sudbury  above  Concord,  the  level  fields 
which  Emerson  loved,  Fairhaven  Hill  and 
Walden  Pond  where  Thoreau  studied  life  and 
its  mysteries,  Stony  Brook,  the  Charles  at  Wal- 
tham,  Waverley  Oaks ;  and  then,  across  the 
Belmont  marshes,  Memorial  and  Mt.  Auburn 
Towers,  the  emblems  of  eager  life  and  the  rest 
which  eager  life  has  no  need  to  fear. 


IN  THE  WREN  ORCHARD. 

ONE  of  the  fairest  spots  known  to  me  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Cambridge  is  the  "  Wren 
Orchard."  Thither  on  the  morning  of  this  Sun- 
day, May  24,  I  took  my  little  covey  of  butter- 
cup hunters.  The  orchard  was  set  out  several 
generations  ago,  and  not  only  the  unknown 
hand  which  planted  it  but  the  house  that  shel- 
tered him  and  his  have  passed  away  forever. 
The  ground  where  the  orchard  stands  is  a  hill- 
side facing  the  south.  Summer  and  winter 
the  sun  watches  over  it  and  only  gentle  winds 
sweep  across  it.  North  and  east  of  this  sunny 
Eden  are  elms  which  shut  it  out  from  inquisitive 
distance.  Westward  it  is  guarded  by  dark 
cedars,  and  along  its  southern  edge  rise  rank 
upon  rank  of  great  oaks  and  chestnuts,  in  whose 
midst  is  a  small  swamp  overhung  by  an- 
cient willows.  The  swamp  is  made  by  a  gentle 
brook  which  begins  life  in  the  elm  grove  north 
of  the  orchard,  spends  all  its  days  murmuring 
over  a  pebbly  bed  among  forget-me-nots  and 
violets,  and  which  crosses  the  orchard  at  its 
middle.  The  orchard  and  its  borders  contain 


IN  THE  WREN  ORCHARD.  199 

high  land,  low  land,  dry  land,  wet  land,  open 
land,  wooded  land,  hard  wood,  soft  wood,  ever- 
green wood  and  apple  wood  —  all  the  elements 
of  home  and  shelter  which  a  majority  of  land 
birds  desire.  No  wonder  then  that  summer  and 
winter  the  wren  orchard  is  alive  with  birds. 
As  I  write  these  words  merry  calls  and  music 
come  from  all  its  quarters  in  pleasing  medley. 
Many  of  the  birds  have  nests  near  by,  others  are 
building  or  planning  where  to  place  their  nests. 
The  latest  migrants  are  now  here.  In  the  low 
land  south  of  the  orchard  I  hear  a  blackballed 
cuckoo,  saying  "Coo-coo-coo,  coo-coo-coo,  coo- 
coo-coo-coo,  coo-coo-coo-coo."  In  the  largest  of 
the  elms  east  of  the  orchard  an  indigo  bird  is 
singing  his  clear  and  joyous  notes.  His  coloring 
is  as  intense  as  that  of  a  scarlet  tanager  which  I 
have  been  watching  in  the  highest  branches  of  a 
great  oak.  Another  late  migrant,  whose  voice 
is  in  my  ears,  is  the  wood  pewee.  His  notes, 
like  most  of  the  sounds  made  by  the  tyrant  fly- 
catchers, are  querulous  and  unmusical.  He 
seems  to  be  continually  complaining  that  insects 
will  not  fly  into  his  mouth. 

The  thrush  family  inhabits  this  orchard  in 
numbers.  Robins  build  in  the  apple-trees, — 
a  nest  with  four  eggs  in  it  is  in  the  tree  next  me, 
• —  catbirds  and  brown  thrushes  dwell  in  the 
clumps  and  hedges  of  barberry  bushes  with 


200         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING   SNOW. 

which  the  orchard  abounds,  and  the  mild-eyed 
veery  lives  near  the  swampy  spot  by  the  great 
willows.  All  of  these  singers  have  been  pouring 
out  their  notes  during  the  past  hour. 

While  my  little  buttercup  hunters  have  been 
gathering  great  fistfuls  of  pure  golden  blossoms, 
the  turf  of  the  orchard  has  not  been  wholly 
theirs.  Among  a  herd  of  a  dozen  deer-like 
Jersey  heifers  six  cowbirds  have  been  walking 
about  catching  flies  ;  chipping  and  song  -  spar- 
rows have  hopped  about  in  the  grass ;  robins, 
thrushes,  and  bluebirds  have  found  worms  in  the 
earth,  and  I  suspect  that  a  great  glossy  crow 
who  seems  to  have  a  nest  in  a  high  tree  in  the 
swamp  has  found  something  edible  while  stalk- 
ing up  and  down  the  brookside.  From  the 
thick  woods  to  the  south  comes  every  now  and 
then  the  clear  "  bob- white  "  of  the  quail,  and 
they  are  near  enough  for  me  to  hear  the  low 
"  bob  "  which  precedes  the  loud  "  bob  "  in  their 
three-syllabled  whistle. 

I  brought  two  wicker  baskets  to-day,  one  con- 
taining milk,  sandwiches,  and  strawberries,  and 
the  other  a  distinguished  and  important  member 
of  my  household.  His  name  is  Puffy,  and  he  now 
sits  on  the  dead  limb  of  an  apple-tree,  his  great 
dark  eyes  solemnly  gazing  at  a  redstart,  who  is 
abusing  him  from  a  neighboring  limb.  His 
brown  and  white  feathers  blend  so  well  with  the 


IN  THE  WREN  ORCHARD.  201 

rough  bark  of  the  apple  tree  that  it  requires 
sharp  or  experienced  eyes  to  see  him.  Puffy 
is  one  of  two  barred  owls  which  I  have  held  in 
happy  captivity  since  June  1,  1888,  the  day  on 
which  I  took  them  from  their  ancestral  castle  in 
a  White  Mountain  forest.  Puffy  is  not  a  favor- 
ite with  other  birds.  They  dislike  and  distrust 
him,  and  when  I  place  him  in  a  tree,  from  which 
a  crippled  wing  prevents  his  flying,  they  come  to 
him  in  dozens,  scolding  and  complaining  at  his 
very  existence  in  their  midst.  To-day,  while 
the  last  petals  of  the  apple  blossoms  have  been 
falling  around  him,  most  of  the  birds  already 
named,  and  in  addition  kingbirds,  least  fly- 
catchers, redstarts,  black-and-white  creepers, 
ovenbirds,  black- throated  green  warblers,  red- 
eyed  and  solitary  vireos,  downy  and  golden- 
winged  woodpeckers,  rose-breasted  grosbeaks 
and  chickadees  have  perched  or  hovered  near, 
noisily  expressing  their  bitter  feelings  towards 
him.  Sometimes  I  see  his  great  round  head 
turned  towards  the  sky,  and  his  eyes  fix  them- 
selves upon  some  moving  bird.  A  chimney 
swift  or  a  barn  swallow  attracts  him  for  a  second 
only,  but  if  a  hawk  or  a  crow  crosses  his 
heavens  his  eyes  never  leave  it  until  it  disap- 
pears from  view.  He  cares  little  or  nothing 
for  the  abuse  of  other  birds,  but  if  they  actually 
assault  him,  as  kingbirds  and  flickers  often  do, 


202    LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

his  serenity  is  marred.  It  is  still  a  little  early 
in  the  season  for  birds  to  become  frantic  at  his 
presence.  When  the  robins,  vireos,  and  chick- 
adees have  tender  young  dependent  on  them,  the 
sight  of  Puffy  will  drive  them  into  paroxysms  of 
rage. 

I  have  called  this  warm  pasture  flecked  with 
buttercups  and  fallen  apple  petals  the  "Wren 
Orchard."  It  deserves  the  name,  for  it  is  the 
only  spot  in  New  England  that  I  have  ever 
visited  where  house  wrens  survive  and  build 
regularly.  Even  now  I  hear  the  jingling  notes 
of  this  once  common  but  now  rare  bird  falling 
like  drops  of  water  from  a  fountain  through  the 
sunlit  air.  Two  years  ago  (May  26,  1889)  I 
found  one  of  their  nests.  Attracted  by  the 
showery  notes  of  the  male  I  crept  into  a  cor- 
ner of  the  orchard,  where  an  old  apple  -  tree 
grew  alone  in  a  circle  of  privet  and  barberry 
bushes.  Concealed  under  their  branches  I 
watched  the  tree.  Soon  a  wren  appeared,  then 
disappeared  in  the  substance  of  the  tree.  Its 
tiny  body  seemed  to  melt  into  the  bark  of  a 
horizontal  limb  about  twelve  feet  above  the 
ground.  I  examined  this  limb,  seeking  a  hole 
in  it,  but  found  none.  After  a  second  period  of 
watching  I  saw  that  the  bird  passed  into  the 
limb  by  a  hole  on  its  under  side.  I  climbed  the 
tree,  measured  the  extent  of  the  hole,  which  was 


IN  THE  WREN  ORCHARD.  203 

seven  or  eight  inches,  and  then  cut  a  neat  door 
into  it  from  above.  There  on  a  mass  of  soft 
shredded  bark  and  odds  and  entls  of  forest  fibre 
lay  seven  tiny  eggs.  They  were  round  little 
eggs,  having  a  salmon-white  groundwork  thickly 
and  uniformly  covered  with  hundreds  of  minute 
reddish  brown  spots. 

Bluebirds  also  build  in  this  orchard,  and  so 
do  downy  woodpeckers,  flickers,  and  chickadees ; 
all  birds  which  rear  their  families  in  the  hollows 
of  trees.  A  bluebird's  nest  which  I  found  here 
was  placed  at  the  bottom  of  a  dark  dry  cavity  in 
an  apple  trunk.  The  hole  was  large  enough  for 
a  somewhat  slender  hand  to  pass  through,  and 
so  deep  that  half  the  forearm  was  in  the  hole  be- 
fore the  eggs  could  be  touched.  Once  in  a  while 
the  bluebird  lays  pure  white  eggs,  but  generally 
they  are  pale  blue,  and  to  an  unpracticed  eye 
might  suggest  a  reflection  of  the  sky  in  a  pool  of 
rain  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  hole.  Almost  all 
birds  which  nest  in  hollow  trees  lay  unmarked 
white  eggs. 

While  I  am  writing  a  downy  woodpecker  and 
a  flicker  both  make  their  voices  heard  in  the 
orchard. 

The  barberry  bushes  are  in  bloom  to-day,  and 
I  have  amused  my  buttercup  hunters  by  show- 
ing them  how  the  barberry  flowers  set  traps  for 
their  insect  visitors.  As  one  turns  up  the  yellow 


204         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING   SNOW. 

cup  of  the  flower  and  looks  into  it,  he  sees  the 
stamens  pressed  against  the  inner  curve  of  the 
petals  and  away  from  the  central  column  of  the 
pistil.  If  a  straw  be  gently  pressed  upon  the 
base  of  the  stamens  the  latter  jump  forward  and 
clasp  it  tightly  enough  to  hold  it.  This  pres- 
sure covers  the  embraced  surface  with  yellow 
pollen,  and  in  the  case  of  an  insect  would  make 
it  perfectly  certain  that  in  shaking  himself  free 
he  would  not  only  rub  some  of  the  pollen  upon 
the  pistils  of  the  flower  he  was  in,  but  that  he 
would  bear  away  enough  of  it  to  cross-fertilize 
the  next  blossom  he  entered. 

I  can  hear  the  songs  of  a  robin,  an  oriole,  and 
a  rose-breasted  grosbeak.  They  have  marked 
differences,  yet  I  find  many  people  are  unable  to 
distinguish  them  unaided.  A  thrush,  a  starling, 
and  a  finch  should  not  sing  alike,  but  in  Cam- 
bridge the  three  birds  build  in  the  same  trees, 
and  mingle  in  their  daily  lives  so  constantly  that 
it  is  possible  they  have  learned  to  speak  alike. 
The  'robin's  song  is  animated,  but  rough  and 
full  of  harsh  passages.  It  reminds  me  of  a 
farmer's  boy  bellowing  his  favorite  tune  as  he 
drives  his  oxen  home  through  a  wood  road. 
The  oriole  often,  makes  music,  but  his  voice  is 
apt  to  crack  and  flat  until  his  silence  seems 
golden.  The  grosbeak  sings  the  robin's  theme 
with  all  the  robin's  spirit,  but  without  the 


IN  THE    WREN  ORCHARD.  205 

robin's  harshness.  It  is  a  stirring,  bold,  free 
song,  having  little  musical  merit  and  no  pathos, 
but  plenty  of  "  go  "  and  "  swing."  The  metallic 
squeak  which  the  bird  genei-ally  makes  just 
before  he  begins  his  song  is  an  odd  and  unmis' 
takable  sound,  which  once  learned  never  fails  to 
identify  this  beautiful  finch. 

Back  of  the  orchard  in  the  evergreens  I  hear  a 
chickadee  calling,  and  a  moment  ago  a  blue  jay's 
scream  attracted  my  notice.  Their  voices  carry 
me  back  many  Sundays  to  those  winter  days 
when  I  began  my  walks.  This  slope  now  soft  with 
thick  grass  and  splendid  with  golden  buttercups, 
shy  violets,  jolly  little  potentillas  and  pale  wild 
geraniums  swaying  in  the  breeze,  was  then 
eighteen  inches  deep  in  snow.  These  trees  now 
arrayed  in  lustrous  foliage  were  then  encased  in 
ice  armor  or  muffled  in  the  snow  which  crushed 
the  cedars  to  the  earth  and  wrecked  yonder 
prostrate  willow,  whose  fall  I  remember  seeing 
and  hearing.  The  blue  jays,  chickadees,  and 
robins  which  frequented  this  warm  pasture  in 
January  are  probably  hundreds  of  miles  from 
here  to-day,  rearing  their  young  in  the  woods 
and  fields  of  the  far  north.  The  glistening  snow 
which  then  burdened  the  earth  and  trees  is  now 
gleaming  in  this  brook,  flowing  as  life  blood 
through  these  tree  trunks,  forming  the  chief 
part  of  these  brightly  tinted  leaves  of  grass, 


206         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

ferns,  brakes,  flowers  and  shrubs,  or  floating 
high  in  that  warm  sky,  and  as  a  pure  spirit  of 
the  past  smiling  upon  the  land  of  plenty  to 
which  it  never  was  unfriendly  or  unkind.  Yes, 
the  winter  has  melted  into  spring  and  now  the 
spring  has  blossomed  into  summer.  Nature, 
once  so  cold  and  white  and  still,  is  now  warm, 
gleaming  with  many  tints  and  trembling  with 
growth  in  every  marvellous  group  of  its  restless 
molecules.  The  tide  of  life  was  ebbing  in 
January.  Now  it  is  nearing  the  flood.  Then 
the  soul  of  man  needed  courage  and  faith  to 
make  it  believe  that  the  frozen  world  had  un- 
quenchable life,  persistent  force,  locked  up  in  it. 
Now  the  soul  needs  the  intelligence  of  God  to 
enable  it  to  count  the  wonders  of  realization 
which  burning  life  and  exuberant  energy  have 
placed  above,  below,  and  on  every  side. 

As  I  look  at  this  grass  and  the  flowers  which 
shine  in  its  midst,  at  the  myriad  leaves  upon  the 
trees,  at  the  butterflies,  caterpillars,  locusts,  ants, 
and  bees,  and  at  the  birds*  solicitous  for  their 
eggs  or  young,  should  I  be  sorrowful  because 
in  a  few  days  the  annual  tide  of  life  will  turn 
and  the  grass  begin  to  ripen,  the  flowers  to  fade, 
the  butterflies  to  die,  and  the  birds  to  take  note 
of  the  sky  and  begin  their  journey  southward  ? 
No.  The  rhythm  of  the  universe  demands  just 
this  coming  and  going,  rising  and  falling,  ex- 


IN  THE   WREN  ORCHARD.  207 

panding  and  contracting,  living  and  dying. 
Without  reaction  there  could  be  no  action. 
Without  death  we  should  not  know  what  life 
meant ;  without  what  we  call  sorrow  there  could 
be  no  joy. 

I  hear  the  song  of  the  veery  down  there  under 
the  willows.  It  is  a  weird,  ventriloquial  song. 
The  bird  seems  making  its  gypsy  music  to 
itself,  not  to  the  world.  In  that  dark  corner 
the  trillium  grows,  keeping  its  face  hidden  un- 
der its  cloak.  There,  too,  the  jack-in-the- 
pulpit  is  found  masking  its  face.  The  song  of 
the  veery  has  in  it  the  tinkling  of  bells,  the 
jangle  of  the  tamborine.  It  recalls  to  me  the 
gypsy  chorus  in  the  "  Bohemian  Girl,"  and  when 
I  hear  it  as  evening  draws  on,  I  can  picture  light 
feet  tripping  over  the  damp  grass,  and  in  the 
shadows  made  by  moving  of  branches  and  ferns 
I  can  see  dark  forms  moving  back  and  forth  in 
the  windings  of  the  dance. 


CHOCORUA. 

A  MAY  rain  after  a  spring  drought  has  a 
wonderfully  reviving  effect  upon  the  landscape. 
It  washes  away  dust,  expands  tissues,  intensifies 
colors,  deepens  shadows  and  heightens  contrasts ; 
fills  the  brooks,  and  veils  the  horizon  in  white 
mist.  On  May  29,  just  after  the  sun,  presum- 
ably in  rubber  boots  and  a  mackintosh,  had 
crossed  the  meridian,  a  train  rolled  out  of  Bos- 
ton, bound  for  the  north.  Its  windows  were 
soon  wet  and  covered  with  coal  ashes.  Rain- 
drops were  driven  at  all  angles  across  them,  dis- 
torting the  landscape  and  discouraging  observa- 
tion. The  rain  accompanied  the  train  to  the 
end  of  its  journey.  It  beat  upon  the  Saugus 
marshes  and  the  sands  of  Revere  Beach,  and  it 
splashed  into  the  rushing  tide  of  the  Merrimac 
flowing  seaward  at  Newburyport.  The  Hampton 
marshes  were  strikingly  picturesque  in  the  storm. 
Near  the  train  the  lush  grass  on  the  flats  could 
be  seen  bowing  before  the  gusts.  The  tide- 
rivers  and  channels  were  full  to  their  brim,  and 
showed  snowy  white  under  the  colorless  sky  and 
between  their  verdant  banks.  Within  their 


CHOCORUA.  209 

meshes  and  reaching  on  to  the  invisible  sea,  were 
thousands  of  acres  of  green  marsh  dotted  with 
haystacks,  or  the  round  groups  of  piles  from 
which  the  stacked  hay  had  been  removed.  The 
most  distant  stacks  looked  no  larger  than  thim- 
bles, and  were  dim  in  the  fast  falling  rain.  As 
the  train  sped  over  the  marshes  these  distant  hay- 
cocks seemed  to  move  as  little  as  the  sun  would 
have,  had  it  been  hurrying  on  that  far  line  of 
sky,  while  the  near  ones  swung  swiftly  past,  and 
those  intermediate  went  with  them,  yet  more 
slowly.  The  marsh  seemed  like  a  great  wheel 
revolving  beside  us,  its  lines  of  haycocks  being 
the  innumerable  spokes  forever  whirling  past. 

The  rain  pelted  the  Piscataqua  at  Portsmouth, 
and  almost  hid  the  great  ship-houses  at  the  Kit- 
tery  Navy  Yard.  It  was  beating  upon  Milton 
ponds  as  the  train  rolled  past  them,  and  it  was 
swelling  the  flood  of  Bearcamp  water  as  we 
gained  Ossipee  valley.  Of  course  no  mountains 
were  to  be  seen.  They  were  hidden  in  the  roll- 
ing masses  of  vapor  which  filled  the  upper  air. 
Towards  them,  however,  and  into  their  midst  we 
continued  our  journey  by  stage.  The  trees  were 
dripping  with  rain,  patches  of  mist  trailed  west- 
ward over  the  hill-tops,  the  bushes  and  flowers 
by  the  roadside  glistened  with  moisture.  In 
places  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  spicy  breath 
of  the  choke-cherry,  whose  multitudes  of  finger- 


210         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

shaped  racemes  drooped  under  the  weight  of 
rain.  The  perfume  of  this  tree  is,  at  certain  dis- 
tances, akin  to  that  of  the  heliotrope.  White 
and  purple  violets,  star-flower,  chokeberry,  false 
Solomon's  seal,  fringed  polygala,  and  dwarf  cornel 
blossomed  by  thousands  on  every  side.  Brakes 
were  just  opening,  many  being  still  coiled,  wait- 
ing some  elfin  touch  to  expand,  but  the  ferns 
were  present  in  force.  They  are  one  of  the 
triumphs  of  nature.  Numerous  in  species,  ex- 
quisite in  form,  tender  in  color,  graceful  in  mo- 
tion, harmless  in  growth,  wholesome  in  odor,  sen- 
sitive yet  persistent,  refined  yet  abundant.  Some 
of  them  perish  at  the  first  frost,  as  for  example 
the  onoclea ;  others  like  the  Christmas-fern  and 
polypody  remain  green  and  buoyant  all  winter, 
even  when  half  buried  in  snow  or  covered  by  ice. 
The  coloring  of  the  osmunda  regalis  as  it  un- 
folds is  in  beautiful  contrast  to  that  of  the  other 
osmundas,  the  former  being  light  red,  salmon 
colored,  orange,  or  even  bright  red,  and  the  lat- 
ter silvery  green.  Bird  voices  were  not  quenched 
by  the  rain.  The  harsh  squawk  of  the  night-hawk 
came  from  the  mist ;  hermit  thrushes  sang  in 
damp  balsam  cloisters,  chimney  swifts  sprinkled 
the  air  with  their  small  notes,  and  the  thin  voices 
of  warblers  were  heard  in  every  thicket.  Here, 
as  in  Cambridge,  the  migration  seemed  to  be 
over  and  resident  species  present  in  full  force. 


CHOCORUA.  211 

The  stage  turned  into  a  narrow  ribbon  road 
lined  with  white-stemmed  birches.  The  road 
pointed  straight  towards  Chocorua,  whose  vast 
base  rose  like  a  wall  across  the  north,  meeting 
the  even  line  of  white  cloud  which  concealed  its 
peak.  To  the  right,  glimpses  of  water  revealed 
the  position  of  Chocorua  Lake.  The  ribbon 
road  led  to  a  red-roofed  cottage  in  the  midst  of 
an  ancient  orchard,  and  there  stopped.  This  cot- 
tage stands  within  the  limits  of  the  wilderness. 
In  winter  the  snow  lies  around  it  in  deep  drifts, 
and  for  many  weeks  at  a  time  no  snowshoe 
leaves  its  latticed  imprint  near.  The  moun- 
tain broods  over  it,  and  when  in  cold  nights  the 
groaning  of  the  ice  gives  the  lake  voice,  it  tells 
the  cottage  the  story  of  its  journey  from  the  sky 
and  its  plans  for  reaching  the  sea.  From  the 
days  after  the  civil  war  until  five  years  ago,  this 
cottage  was  the  home  of  the  children  of  the 
forest.  Man  left  it  to  be  shingled  by  lichens 
and  glazed  by  cobwebs.  Snow  lay  deep  in  its 
attic,  pewees  nested  in  the  angles  of  its  rooms, 
snakes  and  skunks  dwelt  in  its  foundations, 
generations  of  swifts  were  hatched  in  its  chim- 
ney, and  chipmunks  frolicked  in  its  empty  rooms. 
To  the  deer,  the  crow,  the  fox,  and  the  hedge- 
hog, this  house  had  no  terrors.  It  had  ceased 
to  belong  to  man.  Although  of  late  years  it 
has  been  my  home,  I  have  done  what  I  can  to 


212         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

maintain  the  belief  among  the  creatures  of  the 
forest  that  it  belongs  to  them. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  as  the  stage  rolled  up  to 
the  cottage  door,  left  us,  turned  around  and 
departed.  Inside,  a  fire  blazed  on  the  old 
hearth,  and  the  bark  on  the  birch  logs  sputtered 
and  crackled  like  burning  fat.  Outside,  the  rain 
fell  softly,  making  a  pleasant  murmur  on  the 
leaves,  a  murmur  which  blended  with  the  voices 
of  crickets,  tree  toads,  hylas,  and  frogs.  As 
night  fell  and  the  fire  burned  low,  the  clock  and 
the  whippoorwills  began  a  conversation  which 
lasted  long,  perhaps  till  morning. 

A  rainy  morning  does  not  discourage  birds. 
They  are  just  as  hungry,  and  almost  if  not  quite 
as  tuneful  as  on  other  days.  The  morning  of 
the  30th  of  May  was  warm  and  wet,  but  the  air 
was  as  full  of  bird  notes  as  of  rain  drops.  A 
white-throated  sparrow  sang  pea-pea-peabody, 
peabody,  peabody,  under  my  window ;  a  cat- 
bird in  the  grape-vine  in  front  of  the  house  rev- 
elled in  a  medley  of  notes,  hermit  thrushes  ren- 
dered their  sweet  phrases  from  three  neighboring 
groves,  and  red-eyed  vireos,  chestnut-sided  war- 
blers, redstarts,  ovenbirds,  barn-swallows,  and 
swifts  filled  in  any  gaps  with  their  joyous  voices. 
A  pair  of  catbirds  were  building  their  nests  in  the 
lilac  bush  at  the  corner  of  the  cottage,  so  near  a 
window  that  a  long  arm  could  reach  it.  The 


CHOCORUA.  213 

pewees  were  feeding  their  young  in  a  nest  at 
the  top  of  a  pilaster  under  the  eaves  of  the 
house.  The  piazza  rail  was  their  perch  all 
through  the  day.  They  have  occupied  the  nest 
three  years.  The  nest  used  in  1888  is  in  an  angle 
of  the  roof  near  by.  The  pewee  has  a  trick 
which  it  is  hard  to  explain.  It  jerks  its  tail  up- 
ward sharply  about  once  in  two  seconds.  The 
motion  is  petulant  in  character,  but  suggestive 
of  eternal  vigilance.  Both  birds  caught  insects 
for  their  young,  and  the  feeding  process  seemed 
perpetual.  Over  the  dairy  window  is  a  wooden 
gutter  to  catch  the  rain  from  the  roof.  This 
being  a  dry  spring,  a  foolish  robin  built  in  the 
gutter,  near  its  lower  end.  The  nest  was  soaked 
by  the  storm  on  the  29th  and  30th,  and  partly 
dissolved  by  the  trickling  water,  but  the  robin 
stuck  to  her  eggs.  The  noisiest  birds  anywhere 
near  the  cottage  were  a  pair  of  great-crested  fly- 
catchers. They  screamed  or  whistled  all  day. 
Their  voices  are  harsh,  their  tempers  and  man- 
ners bad,  but  their  nesting  habits  are  very  inter- 
esting. They  build  every  year  in  the  hollow  of 
an  apple  tree,  where  a  large  limb  broke  off  long 
ago  and  gave  the  elements  a  chance  to  make  a 
deep,  dark  cavity.  The  last  nest  I  examined 
consisted  of  cow's  hair,  reddish  fur,  feathers,  a 
squirrel's  tail,  grasses,  dry  leaves,  shreds  of  birch 
bark,  and  many  small  pieces  of  snake-skin.  One 


214         LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

year  nearly  the  whole  of  a  discarded  snake-skin 
was  placed  in  a  circle  around  the  eggs.  I  have 
yet  to  find  one  of  their  nests  without  a  piece  of 
snake-skin  in  it.  I  think  the  bird  uses  it  be- 
cause experiments  tried  by  previous  generations 
have  shown  that  the  skin  is  useful  in  scaring 
away  squirrels,  mice,  and  other  enemies.  Be- 
tween the  cottage  and  the  lake  I  found  a  song 
sparrow's  nest.  It  was  built  in  marked  contrast 
to  the  one  in  the  willow  tree  on  Concord  turn- 
pike. Flat  on  the  ground  at  the  edge  of  a  ditch, 
its  only  shelter  was  a  bunch  of  brush,  cut  last 
season  and  left  to  dry.  From  above,  the  nest 
and  its  contents  were  perfectly  concealed,  but 
by  stooping  down  and  looking  in  from  the  bank 
of  the  ditch  I  could  see  the  neat  grass  cup  and 
its  four  richly  colored  eggs.  The  bird  in  leav- 
ing the  nest  showed  herself  expert  in  dodging. 
She  glided  from  beneath  the  brush  and  over  the 
edge  of  the  ditch,  much  as  a  leaf  might  have  if 
impelled  by  the  wind.  Dropping  to  the  bottom 
of  the  trench  she  ran  down  its  gravelly  bottom 
nearly  to  the  shore  of  the  lake  before  she  took 
wing  for  the  woods.  Although  the  chipping 
sparrow  spends  most  of  its  summer  in  the  grass, 
it  builds  its  nest  of  coiled  horse-hair  in  the 
branch  of  an  apple-tree,  at  least  eight  or  ten  feet 
from  the  ground.  One  of  their  nests  was  nearly 
finished  in  a  tree  near  the  dining-room  window. 


CHOCORUA.  215 

The  swifts  had  not  begun  building  in  the 
chimney,  but  the  cause  of  their  delay  was  discov- 
ered when  one  of  them  was  found  beating  against 
the  inside  of  an  upstairs  chamber  window.  The 
poor  frightened  creature  had  come  down  the 
chimney  into  the  fireplace,  and  had  probably  been 
a  captive  for  several  days.  Holding  it  gently  but 
firmly  in  my  left  hand,  I  endeavored  to  hypno- 
tize it,  as  I  had  the  peabody  bird  on  April  80th. 
Its  brown  eyes  looked  at  me  beseechingly,  and 
it  winced  whenever  I  touched  it.  Its  flat  head, 
tiny  beak  leading  to  a  wide  mouth,  long  slender 
wings,  insignificant  feet  and  legs,  and  strange 
little  tail,  with  bare  spikes  at  the  tips  of  the 
feathers,  combined  to  form  a  creature  more  like 
a  living  arrow  than  a  denizen  of  earth.  Tak- 
ing it  out-of-doors  I  caressed  it  a  moment  more 
and  then  slowly  opened  my  fingers.  Could  it 
be  that  the  tiny  being,  which  I  might  have 
crushed  by  one  grip  of  my  hand,  possessed  a 
speed  almost  equal  to  a  projectile,  and  a  brain 
powerful  enough  to  will  that  speed  and  to  direct 
it  ?  Like  a  breath  the  bird  was  gone.  Those 
slender  wings  throbbing  through  the  air  bore  it 
higher  and  higher,  round  and  round  in  widen- 
ing circles,  until  it  was  lost  in  the  depths  of  the 
sky.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  held  a  soul  in  my 
hand  and  as  though  that  soul  had  gone  back  to 
the  infinite. 


216        LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

Standing  in  the  deep  woods  by  the  side  of  a 
rushing  stream  I  watched  a  slender  silk  line 
borne  down  with  the  current.  The  line  straight- 
ened. One  end  was  restrained  by  the  tip  of 
my  fishing  rod,  the  other  end  swayed  from  right 
to  left  in  a  little  whirlpool  under  a  miniature 
waterfall.  On  the  lower  end  was  a  barbed 
hook,  on  the  hook  was  a  writhing  worm,  and 
presently  on  the  writhing  worm  was  a  strug- 
gling fish.  Tossed  to  the  shore  he  fell  among 
the  nodding  ferns  and  lay  under  them  011  his 
side,  gasping.  He  threw  himself  into  the  air 
a  few  times  by  a  spasmodic  contraction  of  his 
muscles,  and  then  died.  As  he  lay  there  among 
the  .ferns,  violets,  wild  lilies  of  the  valley, 
gleaming  checkerberries,  and  other  gayly-tinted 
groundwork  of  the  forest,  he  outshone  them  all. 
White,  gray,  yellow,  orange,  red,  green,  blue, 
brown,  and  black,  —  all  shared  in  his  brilliant 
coloring.  His  beauty  was  not  all  in  tints.  Plis 
outlines  were  graceful  and  suggestive  of  speed. 
His  fins,  delicate  and  wonderful  structures  in 
themselves,  were  so  placed  as  to  give  him  marvel- 
lous powers  of  motion  and  control  of  direc- 
tion. A  moment  before  he  had  had  not  only 
beauty  and  speed  but  intelligence.  The  cun- 
ning and  wariness  of  the  trout  are  proverbial. 
But  he  was  dead,  and  I  went  on  down  the 
stream  for  an  hour,  catching  and  killing  more 


CHOCORUA.  217 

marvels  of  color  and  design  until  I  had  enough 
for  dinner. 

The  surroundings  of  a  good  trout  brook  are 
much  more  fascinating  than  the  fishing.  The 
woods  are  lonely  as  regards  mankind,  but  they 
are  full  of  wild  life  and  the  bustle  of  that  life. 
The  fisherman  always  realizes  the  bustle  of  the 
mosquitoes  and  black  flies,  but  he  is  not  so  quick 
to  appreciate  the  gypsy  music  of  the  veery,  the 
rich  notes  of  the  solitary  vireo  or  the  water 
thrush,  or  the  gorgeous  coloring  of  the  Maryland 
yellowthroat,  blackburnian  warbler,  and  Canada 
flycatching  warbler,  which,  ten  chances  to  one, 
are  his  unseen  companions  during  the  day. 

In  the  afternoon  I  visited  my  favorite  pair  of 
sap-sucking  woodpeckers  whose  beginnings  of 
housekeeping  I  had  noted  on  May  1st.  Their 
maple  tree  which  had  yielded  sap  all  last  summer, 
and  again  for  a  time  this  spring,  seemed  to  be  dry. 
Perhaps  in  a  sunless  wet  day  sap  does  not  flow 
freely.  The  holes  cut  by  the  birds  this  season 
numbered  over  five  hundred,  and  their  location 
on  various  parts  of  the  trunk  indicated  that  the 
birds  found  difficulty  in  securing  as  free  a  flow 
of  sap  as  they  needed.  All  told,  there  are  now 
fully  fifteen  hundred  holes  in  the  bark  of  that 
one  red  maple.  As  I  neared  the  tree  in  which 
the  male  had  been  drilling  a  month  ago,  I 
chanced  to  look  at  a  dead  poplar  about  twenty 


218         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

feet  in  height  which  stood  near  it.  To  my  aston- 
ishment I  discovered  the  head  of  the  male  sap- 
sucker  protruding  from  a  hole  in  its  side.  He 
saw  me  and  saw  that  I  saw  him.  The  hole  was 
fifteen  feet  from  the  ground,  on  the  southeast 
side  of  the  stump.  The  male  flew  away.  See- 
ing neither  bird  near  the  hole  which  I  had 
planned  to  attack,  I  decided  to  cut  down  the 
stump.  It  toppled  against  some  low  evergreens, 
which  broke  the  force  of  its  fall.  The  hole 
was  less  than  a  foot  in  depth,  and  contained  two 
chubby  little  white  eggs,  through  whose  shell 
the  color  of  the  yolk  was  plainly  visible.  The 
bottom  of  the  hole  was  cushioned  with  fine  chips. 
Concealing  myself,  I  waited  to  see  what  the 
woodpeckers  would  do.  They  had  watched  my 
work,  and  had  not  gone  out  of  my  sight  at  all. 
Flying  to  the  tree  nearest  the  poplar,  they  aimed 
for  the  spot  where  it  had  been,  and  flew  to  it, 
hovered  a  second  and  returned.  This  was  done 
over  and  over  again,  but  much  oftener  by  the 
female  than  by  the  male.  Failing  to  find  the 
stump  by  flying  from  the  nearest  tree,  they  tried 
to  strike  it  by  approaching  it  from  other  trees 
standing  respectively  to  the  south,  southwest, 
west,  and  northeast  of  its  former  position.  The 
stump  itself,  prostrate  among  the  ferns,  was 
wholly  ignored.  The  birds  showed  no  grief, 
indignation,  or  fear,  nothing  but  astonishment 


CHOCORUA.  219 

at  the  disappearance  of  their  focus.  I  think  it 
possible  that  one  or  both  birds  had  been  hatched 
in  this  poplar,  and  had  in  turn  reared  families 
in  it,  for  it  contained  an  old  hole  below  the  new 
one. 

On  my  way  home  I  crossed  the  fresh  tracks 
of  a  deer,  its  sharp  hoof  prints  having  been  made 
since  the  heavy  rains  of  the  forenoon. 

Neariug  the  barn,  I  was  greeted  by  the  whin- 
ing squeals  of  a  newly  captured  baby  barred 
owl.  It  had  been  found  in  the  same  hollow  in 
a  giant  beech  from  which  my  two  favorite  pets 
were  taken  June  1,  1888.  When  first  seen, 
about  May  10,  it  was  too  small  to  be  carried 
away.  Even  on  May  17,  the  day  on  which  its 
capture  was  completed,  it  was  only  a  double 
handful  of  soft  gray  down  and  stomach,  accent- 
uated by  claws,  hooked  beak  and  a  squealing 
voice.  By  May  30  it  had  grown  into  the  like- 
ness of  an  owl.  Its  stiffs  wing  and  tail  feathers 
had  begun  to  grow  long,  and  much  of  its  plum- 
age to  assume  the  distinctive  markings  of  the 
family.  Its  head  and  breast  were  still  downy, 
and  its  eyes,  feeble  in  sight,  looked  milky  and 
bluish.  In  answer  to  its  clamor,  I  gave  it 
a  handful  of  angleworms,  and  a  bullfrog  neatly 
jointed.  Tucked  up  for  the  night  in  a  cloth 
and  warmed  by  my  hand,  it  made  a  series  of 
chuckles  amusingly  similar  in  character  to  the 
contented  peepings  of  a  brood  of  chickens. 


220         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

About  five  o'clock  Sunday  morning  (May 
31)  a  deer  stepped  boldly  out  of  the  woods  at 
the  top  of  a  sloping  field  and  surveyed  the  val- 
ley below  it.  A  small  farmhouse  from  whose 
chimney  a  column  of  pale  blue  smoke  rose  into 
the  hazy  air,  a  big  barn  with  cattle  standing  in 
front  of  it,  a  man  milking  one  of  the  cows,  a 
green  meadow  dotted  with  vivid  green  larches,  a 
small  round  pond  framed  in  grass  and  weeds  of 
just  the  kind  deer  like  best  —  this  was  the  picture 
the  deer  saw  and  found  pleasant  to  its  eyes. 
It  walked  down  the  hill,  crossing  a  strip  of 
plowed  land,  leaped  over  a  brush  fence,  and 
paused  in  the  highway.  The  cow  which  was 
being  milked  raised  her  head  and  gazed  fixedly 
at  the  deer.  The  man  felt  the  cow's  motion,  and 
looked  too.  Seeing  the  deer  he  whistled  shrilly. 
The  deer  threw  up  its  head,  shook  its  stub  tail, 
crossed  the  road  with  a  bound,  plunged  through 
the  larches  and  vanished  in  the  deep  dark  woods 
by  the  lake. 

It  was  an  hour  when  bird  voices  filled  the 
air  with  their  messages  of  love  and  happiness. 
The  rain  had  ceased,  the  sun  was  shining ;  no- 
thing came  between  these  children  of  the  air 
and  their  completest  joy.  If  one  wishes  to  be- 
lieve that  life  may  be  and  is  happy,  look  at  the 
birds  at  the  opening  of  summer  and  see  how 
seldom  a  shadow  crosses  their  path.  Even  if 


CHOCORUA.  221 

danger  threatens  for  a  moment,  if  a  snake  ap- 
pears in  the  grass,  a  hawk  in  the  air,  an  owl 
in  the  thicket,  a  man  near  their  nest,  joy  returns 
the  moment  danger  is  gone.  There  are  tragedies 
of  the  nests,  and  many  a  bird  falls  a  victim  to 
destroyers,  but  on  the  whole  the  life  of  birds  is 
joyous,  not  sorrowful;  contented,  not  anxious. 
I  sought  the  birds  that  morning  in  their  deep- 
est solitude,  their  inner  temple.  Wading  ice- 
cold  brooks  in  which  I  alarmed  many  a  trout, 
forcing  a  way  through  thickets  of  high-bush 
blueberry,  alder,  and  tangled  vines,  plunging 
through  soft  spots  in  the  bog  where  I  sank  to 
my  knees,  I  came  finally  to  the  cool  dark  shades 
in  the  centre  of  a  great  swamp.  Several 
tall  pines  reared  their  heads  above  it.  From 
their  lower  limbs,  long  since  dead  and  dry, 
beards  of  gray  moss  depended  and  swung  back 
and  forth.  An  under  forest  of  water  maples, 
balsam  firs,  larches,  and  white  ash  trees  flour- 
ished beneath  the  giant  pines.  Below  these  in 
turn  a  miniature  forest  of  ferns  and  hobble  bush 
grew,  and  still  lower  the  moist  ground  surround- 
ing numerous  pools  of  amber-colored  water  was 
covered  by  a  carpet  of  clintonia,  veratrum,  or- 
chids, gold-thread,  swamp  blackberry,  dalibarda, 
and  fernlike  mosses.  Who,  if  any,  were  the 
dwellers  in  this  solitude  of  solitudes  ?  Not  the 
robin  or  the  bluebird,  the  song  sparrow  or  the 

' 


222         LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

redwing  blackbird ;  they  are  birds  of  the  farm 
or  the  meadow,  not  of  the  twilight.  I  listened. 
"  Teacher,  teacher,  TEACHER,"  came  the  call  of 
the  ovenbird ;  then  followed  the  bold,  spar- 
kling song  of  the  water  thrush,  the  tambourine 
music  of  the  veery,  conversational  cawing  and 
chortling  of  crows,  and  the  familiar  chick-a- 
dee-dee-dee  of  the  titmouse.  Were  these  the 
principal  owners  of  the  shades  ?  The  ringing 
notes  of  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak,  the  quank, 
quank  of  a  Canada  nuthatch,  a  black-and-white 
creeper's  apology  for  a  song,  and  then  a  thin 
painstaking  voice  I  did  not  recognize,  came  to 
show  that  the  roll  of  the  swamp's  tenants  was  not 
complete.  Just  as  I  made  out  the  last  singer  to 
be  a  black-throated  blue  warbler,  a  winter  wren 
sang.  The  brilliancy  of  this  petulant  brown  and 
white  atom's  music  is  one  of  the  wonders  of  the 
northern  woods.  It  is  orchestral  in  nature 
rather  than  vocal,  and  it  is  one  of  the  longest 
songs  I  know.  It  seems  to  me  like  falling  drops 
of  crystal  water  in  which  the  sunbeams  play  and 
give  out  rainbow  tints.  If  I  tried  to  describe 
it  I  should  say  it  was  like  the  music  of  tiny 
spheres  of  silver,  falling  upon  slabs  of  marble 
and  rebounding  only  to  fall  again  and  again  at 
briefer  intervals,  until  their  perfectly  clear,  ring- 
ing notes  had  run  into  one  high,  expiring  tone  too 
delicate  for  the  ear  of  man  to  follow.  The  wren 


CHOCORUA.  223 

sang  over  and  over  again,  and  each  cooling  spray 
of  notes  seemed  more  bewitching  than  the  last. 
Meantime  I  had  recognized  blue  yellow- 
backed  or  parula  warblers,  and  that  charming 
bird,  the  vivacious  Canadian  flycatching  war- 
bler. As  I  strolled  on  slowly  through  the  moss- 
hung  shades  a  large  bird  flew  from  a  maple 
a  rod  or  two  before  me  and  perched  on  a  high 
limb,  so  that  I  saw  it  against  a  patch  of  sky. 
Quickly  covering  it  with  my  glass  I  saw  that 
it  was  a  hawk  of  the  largest  size,  probably 
the  buteo  lineatus  or  red-shouldered  hawk.  To 
my  surprise  the  great  creature  flew  back  to- 
wards me  and  alit  in  a  tree  which  sprang  from 
a  point  close  by.  It  saw  me,  and  was  peering 
keenly  and  anxiously  through  the  leaves.  A 
wild  and  weird  cry  escaped  from  its  open 
throat,  and  it  flew  in  a  half  circle  and  perched 
again  near  by.  Creeping  under  a  balsam  tree 
I  sat  down  and  awaited  developments.  A  rush 
of  wings,  a  shadow,  and  I  saw  the  hawk's  mate 
sweep  downwards  and  alight  upon  the  edge  of 
a  large  nest  of  branches  and  twigs  in  a  tall 
maple  just  in  front  of  me.  It  saw  me  as  it 
struck  the  nest,  and  instantly  swooped  down 
towards  me,  passing  within  two  or  three  feet 
of  my  head.  Both  birds  then  took  positions 
commanding  a  good  view  of  me  and  made  the 
woods  echo  with  their  fierce  cries.  They  were 


224         LAND   OF   THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

within  easy  range  of  a  shotgun,  but  I  had  no  desire 
to  injure  them.  The  red-shouldered  hawk  lives 
mainly  upon  insects,  small  animals,  and  reptiles, 
and  is  no  menace  to  poultry  or  small  birds.  In 
this  instance  the  small  birds  in  the  swamp  sang 
their  songs  with  no  apparent  interest  in  the 
angry  hawks  above  them. 

A  visit  to  the  nest  showed  that  its  limited  and 
uncomfortable  platform  sustained  three  downy 
young  birds  whose  plump  bodies  were  so  placed 
that  the  three  heads  faced  the  circumference  of 
the  nest  at  three  different  points.  They  looked 
as  though  they  had  been  out  of  the  shell  about  a 
week.  A  half-eaten  yellow-throated  frog  was 
in  the  bottom  of  the  nest.  During  this  in- 
spection the  parent  birds  were  flying  in  small 
circles  a  thousand  feet  or  more  above  the  swamp. 
I  think  their  first  boldness  was  due  to  my 
stealthy  approach  and  quick  concealment,  which 
left  them  in  doubt  as  to  what  manner  of  crea- 
ture I  was.  As  the  young  birds  were  not 
quite  large  enough  to  make  it  safe  to  take  them 
prisoners  they  were  left  for  a  time  to  the  tender 
care  of  their  natural  protectors. 

Not  far  from  the  hawk's  nest  I  found  the  tree 
from  which  my  barred  owls  had  been  taken  in 
1888  and  this  year.  The  tree  is  a  beech  over 
sixty  feet  high,  having  in  its  great  trunk  a 
cavity  large  enough  to  admit  a  man's  head  and 


CHOCORUA.  225 

arm.  This  chamber,  which  faces  southwest- 
ward,  is  about  twenty-five  feet  from  the  ground, 
dry  within  but  unfurnished.  The  owlets  have 
no  feather  beds  to  sleep  on,  no  nest  to  keep 
them  warm.  Thinking  that  the  mother  of  my 
most  recent  captive  might  have  laid  again,  I  had 
the  owl  castle  searched,  but  found  nothing. 

The  flowers  of  the  week  were  the  cornel, 
fringed  polygala,  cow-lily,  purple  and  white  vio- 
lets, blue-eyed  grass,  clintonia,  and  hawthorn. 
The  dark  swamps  were  dotted  with  the  yellow 
moccasin  flowers,  and  in  the  higher,  drier  woods 
the  pink  lady's-slipper  abounded.  The  varia- 
tion in  color  in  the  pink  lady's-slipper  is  wide 
for  a  wild  plant  not  separated  into  recognized 
varieties.  From  normal,  the  color  varies  both 
ways,  to  extremely  dark  carmine  and  to  pure 
white.  In  some  of  the  white  ones  even  the 
veining  is  immaculate.  I  found  two  distorted 
flowers  of  the  pink  species  which  suggested  a 
reversion  to  a  less  elaborate  and  morphologically 
effective  form.  The  flowers  which  were  passing 
away  were  the  trailing  arbutus,  of  which  I 
found  only  one  plant  still  blooming  and  fra- 
grant ;  the  apple  blossoms,  which  were  whitening 
the  grass  like  snow  ;  the  trilliums,  hobble  bush, 
choke  cherry,  rhodora,  uvularia  and  anemone. 
The  flowers  just  coming  forward  were  the  lin- 
nsea,  white  orchis,  fleur-de-lis,  and  clover. 


226         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

From  four  o'clock  until  sunset  we  drove,  taking 
for  our  road  the  one  leading  around  three  sides 
of  fair  Chocorua  Pond,  thence  up  the  Chocorua 
River  to  the  eastern  side  of  the  mountain. 
The  afternoon  was  sultry,  and  over,  the  moun- 
tains the  outlines  of  thunder-heads  faintly  edged 
with  gold  showed  through  a  bluish  white  haze. 
The  mountains  looked  double  their  usual  height, 
and  thin,  for  detail,  light  and  shadow,  were  lost 
in  the  haze.  Parts  of  the  lake  were  broken  into 
small  waves,  and  every  wave  was  a  tongue  of  fire 
borrowed  from  the  red  sun.  Under  the  lofty 
white  pines  fringing  the  eastern  shore  the  shade 
was  deep  and  soothing,  and  a  faint  breeze  made 
the  foliage  breathe  and  sigh.  From  the  edge  of 
the  water  a  little  bird  flew  up  to  a  branch,  shook 
itself  and  presented  apparently  novel  coloring. 
Not  until  this  interesting  scrap  of  tropical  life 
began  to  dry  and  smooth  down  its  feathers  did 
it  become  recognizable  as  a  black-throated  green 
warbler  fresh  from  a  bath.  At  the  northeast 
corner  of  the  lake  a  broad  beach  of  white  sand 
extends  for  an  eighth  of  a  mile  in  crescent  form. 
The  water  in  this  bay  is  shallow,  and  under  it 
the  sand  is  clean.  Chocorua's  horn  was  reflected 
in  the  heart  of  this  bay,  while  sleepy  pickerel  and 
schools  of  minnows  could  be  seen  poised  above  the 
sand.  Spotted  sandpipers  ran  along  the  beach, 
kingbirds  shot  out  from  tall  pines  and  hovered, 


CHOCORUA,  227 

chattering,  with  tails  wide  spread,  over  the 
water.  In  the  orchard  opposite,  a  great-crested 
flycatcher  screamed  and  flew  from  tree  to  tree. 
Her  nest  was  in  the  gaping  hollow  of  an  apple 
trunk,  and  on  its  outer  edge  a  bit  of  snake-skin 
caught  the  light.  No  eggs  had  as  yet  been  laid. 
The  muffled  drumming  of  a  grouse  could  be  felt 
by  the  ear  as  its  heavy  throbbing  came  down 
from  high  woods  back  of  the  orchard. 

The  Chocorua  Biver  has  three  phases  of  life 
above  the  pond,  —  mountain  torrent ;  placid 
meadow  brook  and  mill  pond ;  and  forest  river 
full  of  deep  amber  pools,  dams  of  fallen  trees 
and  sawmill  waste,  and  noisy  falls  and  rapids. 
The  road  avoids  the  forest  part  and  emerges  on 
the  mill  pond  and  meadow.  The  meadow  was 
alive  with  birds.  At  the  ford  a  solitary  tattler 
was  feeding.  He  was  an  object  of  no  small 
interest,  for  the  breeding  season  was  at  hand 
and  the  nest  of  this  species  has  never  been 
taken  and  satisfactorily  identified.  He  was  so 
tame  that  I  walked  to  within  twenty  paces  of 
him  before  he  flew,  and  then  he  went  but  a 
short  distance.  The  coloring  of  his  plumage 
suggested  tiny  waves  breaking  over  a  sandy 
shore.  He  has  not  the  teetering  habit  to  the 
extent  that  his  cousin,  the  spotted  sandpiper, 
has,  but  he  is  far  from  steady  in  his  walk. 
Barn  swallows  by  dozens  skimmed  the  surface 


228         LAND  OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

of  the  meadow.  A  few  redwing  blackbirds  —  a 
comparatively  uncommon  bird  in  this  region  — 
balanced  on  the  grass  and  made  more  noise  than 
their  slender  numbers  justified.  A  heron  rose 
from  the  farthest  end  of  the  meadow  and  flew  a 
distance  of  more  than  a  mile  in  a  semicircle, 
heading  north  at  first,  but  ending  his  journey 
by  a  flight  southward  past  the  base  of  Chocorua  to 
a  secluded  pond  under  the  shoulder  of  the  moun- 
tain. His  measured  and  majestic  flight  through 
the  haze,  against  woods,  then  sky,  then  blue 
mountain-side,  was  more  like  the  progress  of  a 
barge  impelled  by  long,  slow-moving  oars  than 
the  hurrying  of  a  bird.  The  pond  to  which  he 
went  is  known  to  few.  It  is  shallow  and  green, 
swarming  with  tadpoles  and  surrounded  by 
sphagnum  banks  above  which  rise  steep  and 
heavily  wooded  slopes.  It  has  no  outlet  save 
the  air,  no  inlet  save  the  springs  which  feed  it. 
Deer  tracks  are  always  thick  about  its  shores, 
and  the  bear,  hedgehog,  fox,  skunk,  mink,  and 
gray  squirrel  are  its  frequent  f ourfooted  visitors. 
From  a  high  hill,  north  of  the  meadow  and 
due  east  of  Chocorua,  we  watched  the  descend- 
ing sun  mark  the  close  of  the  last  day  of  spring. 
On  every  side  the  quiet  of  the  forest  surrounded 
us.  A  house  standing  near  was  but  an  exclama- 
tion mark  to  the  wildness  of  the  scene,  for  it 
had  ceased  to  be  the  home  of  man  and  had 


CHOCORUA.  229 

become  a  mere  monument  of  the  decay  of  a 
community.  Towards  Chocorua  the  land  sloped 
downward  until  it  reached  a  narrow  valley  point- 
ing north  and  south.  Then  it  began  to  rise,  at 
first  imperceptibly,  then  plainly,  then  more  and 
more  abruptly,  until  it  became  precipitous  and 
climbed  high  against  the  sky.  At  its  beginning 
this  slope,  which  like  the  one  on  which  we  stood 
was  clad  in  soft  birches  and  poplars,  was  three 
miles  in  width,  its  north  and  south  limits 
being  sharply  marked  by  rocky  spurs  of  the 
mountain.  As  it  rose,  these  buttresses  of  the 
mountain  drew  together  and  narrowed  it.  Fi- 
nally, as  it  attained  to  a  precipice  of  bald  rock,  the 
source  of  Chocorua  River,  they  came  together 
and  united  their  height  and  strength  with  its 
ascending  mass.  Upon  the  mighty  shoulders 
thus  formed  rested  the  sharp  horn  of  Chocorua, 
three  thousand  feet  above  the  slender  valley  at 
its  feet.  We  were  so  near  to  this  mountain  wall 
that  it  seemed  to  cover  half  the  western  sky. 
The  haze  concealed  all  its  details  of  rough  forest 
and  stained  precipice,  leaving  it  a  blue  barrier 
crowding  its  jagged  outlines  into  a  golden  sky. 
Through  this  sky,  towards  the  edge  of  the  lofty 
horn,  the  red  sun  was  drifting  and  sinking.  It 
did  not  seem  far  away,  but  so  near  that  it  might 
strike  upon  that  menacing  ledge  of  rock,  and 
fall  shattered,  down,  forever  down,  into  an  end- 


230         LAND   OF  THE  LINGERING  SNOW. 

less  abyss  on  the  farther  side.  As  the  sun  sank 
lower  and  lower,  nearer  and  nearer  to  Chocorua, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  marking  a  crisis  in 
the  year,  and  that  when  it  came  again  —  if  come 
it  ever  did  from  the  abyss  behind  that  wall  — 
the  tide  of  life  would  have  changed  and  begun 
its  slow  and  certain  ebbing.  Vegetable  and  ani- 
mal life  seemed  to  have  gained  the  point  of  their 
greatest  beauty  and  activity.  The  leaf  could  be 
no  fairer ;  the  flower  was  already  falling  and  the 
formation  of  the  fruit  begun ;  the  nest  was  built, 
the  egg  laid,  in  many  cases  the  young  bird  was 
already  stirring  his  wings  for  flight ;  and  in  the 
secret  places  of  the  mountain  the  young  of  the 
bear,  the  deer,  and  the  fox  had  long  been  afoot. 
The  sun  reached  the  edge  of  rock  and  passed 
behind  it.  In  the  deep  Chocorua  Valley  the  day 
was  over  and  the  song  of  the  hermit  was  yielding 
to  that  of  the  whip-poor-will,  the  flight  of  the  swal- 
low was  giving  way  to  that  of  the  bat.  Would 
the  life  of  that  valley  be  any  less  happy  on  the 
opening  of  the  season  of  ripening  than  it  was  at 
the  close  of  the  season  of  growth  ?  Surely  not, 
for  there  is  nothing  in  nature  which  is  apprehen- 
sive of  that  period  of  rest,  which  for  the  flower 
is  called  winter,  and  for  the  butterfly,  death.  It 
is  man  alone  who  dreads  the  downward  swing  of 
the  pendulum,  the  ebbing  of  the  tide,  the  pause 
in  the  endless  rhythm  of  life. 


INDEX. 


Agamenticus,  58. 

Alder,  3,  53,  103,  167,  170,  175,  221. 

Alewife  Brook,  52,  122,  128. 

Anemones,  131.  142,  196,  225. 

Ants,  77,  206. 

Arlington,  1,  6,  12,  25,  29,  35,  38, 

40,  52,  53,  73,  78,  91,  127, 179, 180. 
Arnold  Arboretum,  35,  36. 
Ash,  57,  221. 
Assabet   Kiver,   133,   146,   166-174, 

197. 

Asters,  2,  7. 
Azalea,  192. 

Ball's  Hill,  102,  146,  147. 
Balsam  fir,  210,  221,223. 
Barberry,  2-4,  8,  28, 35, 45, 117, 124, 

203. 

Bat,  230. 
Bearberry,  55. 
Bearcainp  River,  150,  209. 
Beaver  Brook,  31,  33,  73,  123,  124, 

159-161. 

Bedford,  47,  48,  102,  147. 
Beech,  46, 151,  175,  192,  195,  224. 
Bees,  172,  206. 
Bellevue  Hill,  36. 
Belmont,  1,  25,  31,  33,  34,44,52,  73, 

110,  127,  176. 
Berkshire  Hills,  194. 
Birch,  2, 7, 29, 109,  111,  113, 150, 156, 

175,  179,  191,  192,  211,  229. 
Bittern,    146-148,  159-163,  176-178, 

181-186. 

Blackberry,  179, 191,  221. 

Blackbird,  52,  55,  84,  147  ;  cowbird, 
99,  116,  124,  130,  133,  200;  purple 
grackle,  73,  90, 113,  123, 133 ;  red- 
wing, 52,  69,  74,  78,  89,  100,  101, 
108,  112,  116,  123,  130,  167,  168, 

176,  228  ;  rusty  grackle,  74. 
Bloodroot,  123,  124. 
Blueberry,  220. 

Bluebird,  42,  43,  48,  51,  53,  56,  75, 
78,  101,  105,  124,  126, 141. 


Blue-eyed  grass,  225. 

Blue  Hill,  28,  29,  35,  36,  46. 

Blue  jay,  35,  39,  41,  48,  205. 

Bobolink,  168. 

Boon  Pond,  171, 172. 

Boston,  1,  19,  26. 

Brookline,  34. 

Brown  creeper,  9,  15,  33,  39,  45, 

56,76. 

Bussey  Woods,  34,  37. 
Buttercup,  15,  38,  51,  55,   131,  142, 

200,  205. 

Butterflies,  76,  206. 
Buttonball,  90,  111,  125. 

Caddis-worm,  68. 

Cambridge,  1,  52,  74, 110,  122, 126, 

165,  190. 

Cape  Cod,  83-95. 
Carlisle,  102,  105,  147. 
Catbird,  167,  176,  199,  212. 
Caterpillar,  55,  206. 
Cedar,  1,  4,  5,  9, 11,  14,  16,  17,  39, 

43,  45,  56. 

Cedar-bird,  17,  28,  33,  51,  124. 
Charles  Kiver,  26,  31,  39,  66,  118, 

124,  197. 

Checkerberry,  96,  196. 
Cherry,  191,  192,  209,  225. 
Chestnut,  3,  8,  117,  198. 
Chewink,  147,  160,  173. 
Chickadee,  4,  9,  16,  18,  19,  33,  35, 

39,  41,  45,  48,  55,  56,  76,  99,  108, 

140,  171. 
Chimney-swift,   152,  168,  201,  210- 

212,  215. 

Chipmunk,  36,  77. 
Chocorua,  150,   151,  155,  157,  211 

230. 

Chokeberry,  191,210. 
Clematis,  161. 

Clintonia,  191,  196,  221,225. 
Clover,  225. 
Club  moss,  55. 
Columbine,  140,  145,  196. 


232 


INDEX. 


Concord,  34,  47-49,  52,  73,  100,  130, 

133,  197. 

Concord  Turnpike,  74, 110,  127, 161. 
Corema,  92. 
Cornel,  210,  225. 
Corydalis,  55. 
Cow-lily,  225. 
Cranberry,  63,  84. 
Crescent  Beach,  23,  24. 
Cricket,  187, 212. 
Crocus,  32. 
Crow,  3,  4,  9,  12,  15,  18,  19,  23,  33, 

39,  41,  45,  48,  51,  55,  64,  80,  89, 

96,  108, 117, 140, 149, 154, 176, 182, 

200,222. 
Cuckoo,  199. 

Dalibarda,  221. 

Dandelion,  123,  131,  142,  164,  191. 

Deer,  150,  219,  220,  228. 

Dove,  domestic,  19 ;  mourning,  147. 

Dover,  115. 

Duck,  94 ;  black,  61-69,  97, 104, 108, 
146,  182, 187  ;  sheldrake,  103, 104, 
141 ;  whistler,  21  ;  wood,  125, 146. 

Dunes,  59-72,  87-92,  149. 

Eagle,  149. 

Elder,  192. 

Elm,  2,  11,  41,  46,  49,  101,  144,  198. 

Everlasting,  131,  142. 

Fairhaven  Bay  and  Hill,  132-140, 

197. 

Ferns,  35,  54,  57,  123,  161,  210,  221. 
Fitchburg,  190-194. 
Five-finger,  51. 
Fleur-de-lis,  225. 
Forget-me-not,  198. 
Fox,  2,  42,  102,  150. 
Fresh  Pond,  52,  110-114,  122,  123, 

127. 
Frog,  78,  135,   138,  151,  176,  212, 

224. 

Geranium,  wild,  205. 
Golden  plover,  92. 
Goldenrod,  2,  7. 
Goldfinch,  2,  16,  18,  88,  105. 
Goldthread,  221. 
Goose,  wild,  90,  91. 
Great-crested  flycatcher,  213,  227. 
Great  meadows  (Concord),  102-106, 

146. 

Greylock,  194. 
Grouse,  33,  36,  40,  55,  57,  76,  80, 

103,  119,  138,  140,  147,  227. 
Gull,  black-backed,  62  ;  herring,  21, 

23, 53, 62,  67, 70,  84,  89;  kittiwake, 

95! 


Harvard  University,  1,  36,  122. 
Hawk,  9,  39,  140 ;  marsh,  100,  146 ; 

red-shouldered,  35,  74,   103,  148, 

223,  224;   sparrow,  53,  112,  123, 

124.  T27. 

Hawthorn,  191,  225. 
Heard's  Island  and  Pond,  144-146. 
Hell's  Bottom,  93. 
Hemlock,  36,  37,  113,  155. 
Hepatica,  54,  78,  80. 
Heron,  147,  228. 
Highland  Light,  85-94. 
Highland  Station,  31. 
Hill's  Crossing,  122. 
Hobble  bush,  196,  221,  225. 
Hog  Island,  69,  71. 
Honeypot  Hill,  166,  167,  171. 
Horned  lark,  68,  91. 
Horsechestnut,  123,  131,  176. 
Horsetail-rushes,  123. 
Houstonia,  131,  142,  149,  173, 191. 
Hudsonia  touieutosa,  63,  69,  87,  88, 

92. 
Humming  bird,  154. 

Indian  relics,  64,  91. 
Indigo  bird,  199. 
Ipswich,  59-70,  150. 

Jack-in-the-pulpit,  207. 

Junco,  74,  79,  100,  106,  151,  196. 

Juniper,  3,  4. 

Kearsarge,  Mt.,  58. 
Kendal  Green,  41,  42. 
Kingbird,  162,  201,  226. 
Kingfisher,  123,  124,  126,  146,  147. 
Kinglet,  golden-crested,  4,   16,  33, 

35, 39,  55,  56 ;  ruby-crowned,  122, 

140, 146. 

Lady's  slipper,  191,  225. 
Larch,  220,  221. 
Laurel,  191. 

Least  flycatcher,  130,  201. 
Lexington,  18,  53,  78,  81. 
Lilac,  130,  172,  176,  212. 
Lincoln,  40,  41. 
Liunaea,  225. 
Locust,  76,  118,  206. 
Loon,  152,  158. 
Lynn,  21,  26. 

Maple,  29,  80,  111,  114, 122, 128, 131, 
150,  153,  156,  175,  192,  195,  217. 

Marsh  marigold,  149,  150,  163. 

Massachusetts  Bay,  26,  57. 

Meadow  lark,  53, 89, 95,  99, 116, 123, 
168. 

Meadow-sweet,  63. 


INDEX. 


233 


Medford,  12,  25,  127. 
Memorial  Hall,  11,  27,  197. 
Merrimac  River,  27,  208. 
Middlesex  Fells,  1,  25,  29,  39,  127. 
Minute -Man,  49,  98,  99,  109,  130, 

146,  148. 
Mole,  106. 
Monadnock,  Mt.,28,  36,  46,  57,  194, 

196. 

Moth,'  76. 

Maimt  Auburn,  27,  73,  127,  197. 
Mjmnt  Pisgah,  39,40. 
Mountain  ash,  195. 
Mouse,  3,  28,  33,  35,  40,  42.  68,  71, 

106. 

Mullein,  51. 
MuskeUquid    River,  98-109,    131, 

133,  197. 

Muskrat,  43,  74,  76,  108. 
Mystic  Pond,  38,  39,  91. 

Nashua  River,  190,  196. 
Neponset  River,  26,  28,  29. 
Night-hawk,  210. 
Nobscot  Hill,  143, 165, 166,  171. 
Nuthatch,  16,  45,  98,  99,  222. 

Oak,  8,  9, 11, 13,  29,  31,  32,  46,  86, 

96, 101, 105, 124, 150, 174,  195,  198. 
Old  Mmse,  49,  98,  109,  130,  148. 
One  Pine  Hill,  40,  54,  78,  79. 
Orchard,  48, 66, 96, 101, 174,198-207. 
Orchid,  221,  225. 
Oriole,  Baltimore,  101, 166, 169, 172, 

204. 

Osprey,  148. 
Ossipee,  150,  209. 
Otter,  76. 

Ovenbird.     See  Warbler. 
Owl,    102,    106;    Acadian,    51,   52; 

*>arred,    77,    201,    219,  224,  225; 

great-horned,  134-140  ;    screech. 

147. 

Partridgeberry,  39,  55. 

Passaconaway,  Mt.,  155. 

Paugus,  Mt.,  155. 

Payson  Park,  73,  126,  127. 

Pegan  Hill,  115-119. 

Pewee,   phoebe,  45,   120,   145,   211, 

213;  wood,  109. 
Pine,  8,  9,  13,  60,  84,  102, 156,  194, 

221  ;  pitch,  10, 39,  88,  96, 101, 150, 

172 ;  white,  40,  119,  134,  138,  172, 

226. 

Piping  hyla,  77,  78,  176, 178,  212. 
Pipsissewa,  55. 
Point  of  Pines,  21,  24. 
Polygala,  210,  225. 


Poplar,  93,  131,  150,  154,  156,  191, 

217, 229. 

Potentilla,  131 ,  142,  196,  205. 
Privet,  3,  4,  8,  202. 
Prospect  Hill,  55,  56,  57. 
Provincetown,  84,  85,  87,  88,  92,  95. 
Puffball,  65. 

Purple  finch,  45,  116,  130. 
Pyrola,  55. 

Quail,  3,  8,  35,  40,  45,  48,  73,  200. 

Rabbit,  3,  8,  35,  36,  40,  42,  54. 

Rattlesnake  plantain,  55. 

Readville,  28. 

Redstart.    See  Warbler. 

Revere  Beach,  20,  208. 

Rhodora,  192,  225. 

Robin,  4,  6,  9, 16,  17,  28,  35,  45,  53, 

56.  73,  95,  99,  123,  130,  140,  142, 

167,  188,  195,  199,  204,  213. 
Rockbottom,  165.  166. 
Rock  Meadow,  73,  74,  159,  161, 176, 

179,  181. 
Rose-breasted    grosbeak,   201,   204, 

205,222. 
Rosebush,  3,  4,  51,  63. 

Sandpiper,  spotted,  148,  226;  soli- 
tary, 227. 

Sandwich,  83. 

Sarsaparilla,  196. 

Sutgus  River,  21,  26,  208. 

Saxifrage,  131,  142,  145. 

Scarlet  tanager,  193,  199. 

Seaweed,  24,  61,  89. 

Shell-heaps,  64. 

Shrike,  95. 

Skunk,  35,  42,  66,  67,  95,  211. 

Skunk-cabbage,  32,  54,  80. 
-Skunk  currant,  196. 

Snake,  77,  96,  174,  211. 

Snipe,  177,  178,  188. 

Snow  bunting,  23. 

Snowfleas,  4,  33,  108. 

Solomon's  seal,  55,  196,  210. 

Sparrow,  chipping,  116,  123,  124, 
142,  151,  171,  200,  214;  English, 
20,24,41,  73,  101,  111,  112;  field, 
117,  140,  142,  151,  172 ;  fox,  45, 
54,  57,  102,  106,  107,  108,  112; 
grassfinch,  116,  151 ;  Ipswich,  67, 
88;  song,  51,  53,  73,  78,  81,  95, 
112,130,  140, 189,  214;  swamp,  45; 
tree,  16,  29,  33,  41,  48,  51,  63,  76, 
78,  79,  90,  91. 

Spider,  55,  79. 
i  Spruce,  56, 155. 
|  Spy  Pond,  52. 


234 


INDEX. 


Squirrel,  3,  8,  35,  36,  49,  54,  77,  80, 

Starflower,  191,  210. 

Stony  Brook,  41,  43, 114,  197. 

Stow,  171. 

Strawberry,  196. 

Sudbury  River,  120,  133,  142,  197. 

Sumac,  4,  8,  42,  43. 

Swallow,  141,  142,  150,  174,  230; 
bank,  143,  168  ;  barn,  143,  151, 
168,  201,  212,  227;  eaves,  143, 
168  ;  martin,  133,  143, 168  ;  white- 
bellied,  116, 120, 123, 143, 151, 168. 

Tamworth  Iron  Works,  150. 
Thrush,  brown,  139,  140,  167,  191, 

199;  hermit,  107,  142,  157,   210, 

212,   230;    veery.    167,  200,  207, 

217,  222. 

Tom  Coddies,  68. 
Trailing  arbutus,  96,  150,  152,  196, 

225. 

Tree  toad,  212. 
Trillium,  152,  191,  207,  225. 
Trout,  216,  221. 
Truro,  84-97. 

Tudor  Place,  110-114,  122,  123. 
Turkey  Hill,  40,  54. 
Turtle,  75. 
Twisted  stalk,  196. 

Uncanoonucs,  28,  58,  195. 
Uvularia,  152,  225. 

Veery.    See  Thrush. 
Veratrum,  221. 

Violet,  142,  145,  191,  198,  210,  225. 
Vireo,  red-eyed,  191, 201,  212 ;   soli- 
tary, 146,  201,  217. 

Wachusett,  Mt.,  28,  36,  80,  81,98, 
190-197. 


Walden  Pond,  197. 

Waltham,  31,  43,  55,  124,  197. 

Warbler,  169  ;  black  -and  -  white 
creeping,  154,  170,  173,  201,  222 ; 
Blackburn's,  217  ;  black-poll,  197 ; 
black-throated  blue,  161, 173,  222 ; 
black-throated  green,  146,  173, 
201,  226 ;  Canada  flycatching,  217, 
223  ;  chestnut-sided,  161, 173, 212 ; 
Maryland  yellow  -  throat,  217  ; 
Nashville,  154,  196  ;  ovenbird, 
173,  191,  193,  201,  212,  222; 
parula,  142,  223 ;  pine-creeping, 
116,  142,  150,  170,  171,  173; 
redstart,  166,  169,  170,  173,  200, 
212;  water  thrush,  148,217,222; 
yellow  red-poll,  117,  173  ;  yellow- 
rumped,  90,  91,  169,  173 ;  yellow, 
170,  173. 

Watercress,  15,  32,  38,  123. 

Waverley,  18,  31,  55,  73,  159. 

Waverley  Oaks,  73,  123,  124,  126, 
160,  197. 

Wayland,  143,  144. 

Wayland  Elm,  144. 

Wellesley,  118,  120. 

West  Roxbury,  34. 

Whip-poor-will,  140,  212,  230. 

Whiteface,  Mt.,  155. 

Willow,  3,  4,  9,  10,  34,  41,  46,  62. 
101,  111,  128,  161,  173,  188,  189, 
198. 

Winchester,  38,  39,  127. 

Woodchuck,  77,  149. 

Woodcock,  81,  82,  157. 

Woodpecker,  147 ;  downy,  29,  36, 
55,  76,  98,  116,  154,  201.  203; 
golden- winged,  35,  48,  53,  69,  76, 
112,  117,  123,  124,  126,  152,  201, 
203;  yellow-bellied,  154,  217,  218. 

Wren,  house,  202;  short-billed 
marsh,  187  ;  winter,  222,  223. 


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